


With the Ocean in Our Arms

by Stegolibrium



Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rokurou is human, Shigure goes by Ichirou, Slow Burn, Together They Are Dumber, as does the Rangetsu family, spoilers for pretty much everything, the Abbey plays a significant role, the legate!Rokurou au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24225142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stegolibrium/pseuds/Stegolibrium
Summary: On the night of the Opening, an estate crumbles.  A clan is cut down by its own hands.  From the ashes rises a different sort of creature.  A single moment in time changes the surface of history.  For better or worse, this is the hand they've been dealt.
Relationships: Eizen/Rokurou Rangetsu
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. Prologue: Nothingness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An incredibly self-indulgent AU I started almost two years ago that ballooned more than I thought it would. I've barely even scratched the surface of what I want to accomplish, but I hope there's still something to be enjoyed out of what I've done so far. Thanks for stopping by, y'all are great. _(┐「ε:)_

It happened almost a year ago. Rokurou remembers his brother telling him about a man named Artorius. He remembers that day vividly, for several reasons.

For starters, it had been the first day in about a month since he’d even seen the older man. Ichirou Rangetsu had made for the Gaiburk Plains far to the north, on the hunt for someone calling themselves an exorcist. That's about as much as Rokurou knew before his brother was gone, whisked away by the tide of battle. The place got awfully quiet in his absence, made him unbearably restless. Each day was agony, dragging on for what felt like forever. Rokurou did everything he could to fill the emptiness, but it was never enough to properly distract from the day Ichirou would return. The moment he spied his brother silhouetted between the gates, he flung himself into the courtyard, demanding a spar then and there.

If Ichirou was fatigued at all by the long journey, none of it showed. The eldest sibling doled out a particularly brutal thrashing that day, one that left the other seeing stars. None of Rokurou’s tireless preparation had mattered in the slightest. Long nights spent, pressing his begrudging siblings for fight after fight after fight, swallowing pride and dirt and blood. He was so sure that this time, finally, he’d land a hit past Ichirou’s guard. Yet his brother had brushed off his strikes with complete nonchalance, not even feeling the brunt of his swings. Ichirou towered over him, not a hair out of place, as Rokurou wheezed in the dirt, struggling to even kneel.

Tears burned bitter trails down his cheeks, hotter than the blood racing to meet them. It’s expected for partners to bow before and after a match, but Rokurou hadn't bothered, kicking dust beneath his heels as he made to excuse himself as fast as he could. He was treading dangerous waters showing such disrespect, and Rokurou could feel the shame bubbling in the back of his throat. Even to the adults, lasting three minutes against Ichirou Rangetsu was a merit to be proud of. The first time they'd fought, Rokurou couldn’t even last one. But it wasn't good enough - he still _lost_. It didn’t matter how much he’d grown since his first fight, the endless string of _losses_ were just a savage reminder that Ichirou would always be better.

He was still nursing his sore wounds, most notably his pride, when Ichirou came racing towards him that afternoon. Despite Rokurou’s resentful glare, the taller swordsman beamed as he sat, close enough to overlap hakama, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders with a story to tell. What struck Rokurou at the time was the man’s good mood. Ichirou’s always in a good mood, but that day was special. The way his brother recounted his fight with the exorcist filled the older man with such raw vigor that Rokurou can’t recall a time he's ever seen his brother so happy. He'd brandished Tigerclaw, his strongest sword after Stormhowl, chipped and ragged from hilt to tip, as if it were a beloved trophy, and Rokurou could not understand why.

"But you lost," he'd said, disappointed.

Ichirou made a face, brows crinkling. "Naw. I'd say it was more like a tie." He went back to admiring his reflection in the fractured steel. "If we'd've kept going, maybe I’d’ve lost, I'll give you that. But man, what a fight!" 

His brother's eyes gleamed, and Rokurou had a difficult time matching the intensity. He shuffled around awkwardly, silently tracing the web of cracks that marred his brother’s reflection as it said, "Next time we meet, I'll win for sure."

Rokurou offered some manner of grunt, a poor attempt to downplay how utterly captivated he was. A blind man could see through such a halfhearted display, to say nothing of the trained assassin beside him. There was bitter satisfaction felt in realizing his brother’s flaws, that he was _capable_ of them. Rokurou was in awe at this mysterious and powerful exorcist, who dared to match a god and walk away with his life. The excitement thrummed along his fingers, and when he and his brother finally, briefly, made eye contact, there was a curious shift in his brother's expression that made his fists clench. How Rokurou wishes he could have seen the encounter in person.

Quiet stretched between them, long enough to be uncomfortable, before Ichirou made his move: an impromptu visit to the town below, with his youngest, most favorite little brother as his accompaniment. Whether he wanted it or not (and he most definitely did _not_ ), it was all Rokurou could do to keep pace with Ichirou’s superhuman grip on his wrist, and he winced knowing there might be bruises later.

Before he knew it, the two of them were sharing a bench, just outside a quiet little corner stall, each with their own bowl of yozakura anmitsu. He remembers savoring the ice cream while pondering the older man’s behavior. He just didn't get Ichirou. Everything about the jerk annoyed him to the ends of the earth, no, the sky, the _sun_. Bellowing, _gloating_ , over what should have been a shameful, disheartening experience - Rokurou’s known nothing but suffering from his defeats, nothing but anguish, punishment, criticism - none of it adds up. How could he lose and talk like it’s a _good thing?_ Is it different for grownups? What did Ichirou have that he didn't?

Rokurou doesn't recall whether he actually voiced his concerns aloud, or if his brother just had unsettlingly good timing. All he recalls is that next, he asked him, "You remember what our master told us when we first started learning the ōdachi?" 

The air smelled sharply of cherry blossom bean paste, bleeding memories of spring into the crisp autumn breeze. Rokurou licked his lips, hyper aware that Ichirou knew exactly how well he remembered, knew precisely how recently he'd learned. The leaves had barely begun to decay when he'd first been permitted to glance, to hold, the precious heirloom promised to his hands and no one else’s: a bright crimson blade that reached well beyond his head, that took all of his might just to keep from tumbling out of his grasp. His master surmised it would be yet another cycle of seasons before he would properly start to grow into its length. In the meantime, they’d been supplementing his lessons with longer and longer bamboo poles, which the longstanding elder used to great effect striking welts in Rokurou’s misplaced ankles and wrists. As the youngest of six, the green in his blood stood out like a third leg, tripping him at every turn. It was maddening.

He doubted Ichirou ever had that problem.

Carefully, he recited, "A sword can't just be hard. It must also be flexible, or it will snap the first time it meets an unexpected force."

"Yeah," Ichirou said, a rare note of sobriety in his voice. It made him sound older, more like the adult he was supposed to be. "But that goes for more than just your blade. That goes for in here, too." He thumbed the center of his chest. “You get it?”

_Not really._

Rokurou ate the melon off his anmitsu, unsure how to reply. He was still thinking when his brother continued. "I saw it in him when we fought," he said. "As good as he was, there was an awful lot weighing him down. Looked like a friggin statue, all-" Ichirou cinched his brows together and frowned, deep enough to dimple his cheeks. "Like he'd break if ya blew on him. I wanna see the kind of strength he has when he doesn't have all that hanging over him. Then we'd have a _real_ fight.”

Confusion bubbled to irritation in his belly, appetite draining away. He'd never spoken with Ichirou all that much before, so why now, all of a sudden? What was the point? Strong or not, the feelings of some exorcist had nothing to do with Rokurou. Maybe he didn't have anything to say at all, maybe he was just trying to push the boy down even further. _"Your stance is so shallow, don't tell me this is your best?", "It's so easy to disarm you, look!", "Watch your grip, little brother, or you'll stab yourself with that toothpick"_. It's just more of the same, isn't it? More jeering, more insults?

Rokurou stared into his ice cream sullenly, counting sesame seeds without focus. He only looked up when he felt his brother's fingers rub messily into his hair.

"But if I'm gonna fight the strongest, I need to practice with the strongest," he said, with a smile as callous as his hand. "So train hard, Rokurou. I'll be counting on you."

And everything clicked. Why he was here, on this bench, eating ice cream with his brother like they didn't hate each other. Cause maybe, actually, on some indiscernible level, they didn't. Sure, all Ichirou wanted was to further his own goals, to use whatever he could to help Ichirou alone get stronger - but there was more to it. And Rokurou finally realized what it was.

There was acknowledgement in his words. There was _praise_.

Rokurou’s ears burned, having never heard such words even from his own mother. To his horror, there was a forgotten, buried part of him that sucked the words in like water, pressing them into his memory like tiny flowers. Several times, he opened and closed his mouth, struggling to form any kind of response. Butterflies frothed in his chest, mixed with a burst of joy so horridly unfamiliar it left his ears ringing.  
  
"J-just watch!" The words came out louder than he meant, nearly biting his tongue with how tense his jaw was. "I'll train so hard, Artorius will wanna fight _me_ instead!"

Ichirou shook the whole bench with his laughter, and if it carried a bit of a bite, Rokurou was able to ignore it. He tried in vain to keep the corners of his own mouth from curling as well, and desperately hid behind bites of melting ice cream. Buried in the wrinkles of his brother’s smile were unspoken words of reassurance.

Rokurou holds onto those distant words. Their unusual warmth helps him swallow the sting of bamboo and wood and steel and _words_ that taunt and toughen and tear into him every day. The pain is immense, the humiliation profound, but he finds it easier to temper the bitterness into something else. Something stronger. He thinks of his brother's chipped sword and feels excitement stir within him.

He wraps those memories around him like a blanket as tremors wrack his body, rousing him from a blackout he hadn't realized he'd been in. Pain lances down his shoulder, lightning in his veins, and his vision splits. Awareness returns in pieces, and it takes several rounds of blinking to realize the stains of scarlet that paint the courtyard are from the eclipse and not his own blood. Wind bites at his wounds, and he can't stop the jolt in his spine as he tries to dredge up how he’s been injured, and where.

An inhuman shriek echoes off to his left. With effort, he drags his neck through the grass to spy a person lying some feet away. Well, what _used_ to be a person. Their torso is in pieces, cut cleanly as though by a butcher’s hand. Their upper half is hidden amidst the garden shrubs, but there's an unsettling kernel of recognition that festers in the back of Rokurou’s mind. Still dripping with blood is the edge of a sword, dancing over the corpse as if debating whether to make another swing. Fear constricts Rokurou’s heart in a choking poison, keeping him still for several seconds before curiosity wins out, and his eyes roll up the blade's length. He stops just short of the hilt, focusing on its familiar curls and edges until he's able to conjure the blade’s name.

 _Stormhowl_.

And Rokurou remembers. Remembers with sudden clarity how his brother Gorou had pulled him from his nightly practice swings to look at the moon. Off they had run, out of the estate, out of the grounds, all the way out to the grassy knolls along the edge of the mountain. They'd pointed out constellations and wrestled atop the wildflowers while shadowy trails of vermillion stretched along the grass like soft, bloody fingers. Only two years separated the siblings, but already that gap was showing in Gorou’s taller build and wider hands. None of those things ever stopped Rokurou from winning their sword fights, but Gorou always took a sort of pride in being the better grappler. The moon was high, rapidly approaching its zenith by the time the two wandered back to the manor, swallowing their yawns behind grass-stained palms and bleary eyes.

They had just come upon the gates when the older boy suddenly stiffened and pressed Rokurou behind him. Rokurou didn’t need his brother’s chivalry, but neither did he mind it, as Gorou’s protective nature was a longstanding relic from when they were much smaller, and Rokurou secretly sought those rare gestures of affection. Peeking around the folds of his brother’s kimono, Rokurou could only describe the source of Gorou’s hesitation as monstrous.

Gangly limbs, too many for a human, stretched the creature taller than even Ichirou. Horns sprouted all along the crown like rings of teeth. Black and red markings crisscrossed the beast’s body, jagged and hungry, glowing faintly with the moonlight. Eerie demonic eyes bore down on Rokurou, and the fury foaming within them was palpable.

In its hand was Stormhowl. Not the true God Blade wielded by his mother, but one of its lesser forgeries: a greener blade swimming with gold trim. A blade that was usually guarded obsessively by the middle Rangetsu sibling, Saburou. Several possible explanations raced through Rokurou's mind as Gorou unsheathed his own ōdachi, rotating into a battle stance as his stare hardened. Rokurou ducked into his robes and unveiled twin daggers, his own blade still tucked in the back of the training hall.

“Rokurou,” was the only signal given. Rokurou had no time to respond, to stop his brother from charging the monster. Something that could bring down Saburou, the only brother on par with Rokurou and rapidly approaching Ichirou’s skill, meant that Gorou stood no chance in a head-on collision.

Nevertheless, Rokurou gripped his knives and raced, attempting to flank.

The beast widened his stance, swung faster than Rokurou thought could even be possible.

And then...and then...

And then.

Rokurou bites hard into his lip as the chill in his body sets in, adrenaline melting into agony. He can't tell whether the moisture hazing his eyes is from the pain or the grief, and his eyes close as a means of hiding from both. Will this murderous beast claim him as well? If only he had the strength to at least put up a good fight. His brothers, if not himself, deserve that much at least.

The click of the monster’s claws pull at Rokurou’s attention. Acutely, he hears the muted drag of a sword being lifted, tip rattling through the pebbles before tapering sharply as it leaves the ground. The beast could only be looting Gorou of his inheritance, another Stormhowl for another of its many arms, and the blood leaking from Rokurou’s bruised lips turns sour with rage. His good hand fists the dirt, needling stings of earth under nails punctuating his helplessness.

The beast lingers, rhythmically shuffling weight between its feet. Toes dig into the dirt, making soft, restless purrs. Like a lion lounging after a meal, wanting more, but in no hurry to change course. There's something about the behavior that forms a terrible heaviness in Rokurou’s gut, kneading into his mind like he’s known it for years, has heard those same sounds every morning, every evening, all over the estate - so many times he’s stopped taking notice.

When he finally makes the connection, he inhales sharply through his nose, uncaring of the bark and grime caught in his breath. The heaviness inside him hardens to stones. It reminds him of-

“Saburou.”

The voice of his mother, Shigure, cuts through the scarlet night with the might of a tidal wave. There is no tenderness in her tone, only harsh edges and untouchable grace, polished from decades leading the clan. Rokurou doesn’t need sight to know the eye of a storm is approaching.

“Even the oracle saw such high hopes for you,” she says, with chilling calmness, “but it appears even those blessed by the gods are not infallible. For you, of all your siblings, to succumb to daemonhood. I expected better of a Rangetsu sown of my own blood.”

The daemon screeches at her, so shrill it seems to bend even the air, and Rokurou’s hearing flickers. _Saburou, it’s Saburou, it’s_ Saburou, he thinks, frantically, not quite believing.

Warmth blooms momentarily in Rokurou’s shoulder, and its foreign comfort is enough for him to finally crack open his eyes. Healing as Rokurou knows it is reserved for the sick or the frail, and a true Rangetsu is borne of neither. He has never seen his mother use the healing hand, and frankly, didn’t think she possessed skill at all in the field. For someone of her caliber, healing has never been necessary.

Truth be told, the mana threading through his wounds is less a healing arte and more an adrenaline boost. Blood no longer bubbles ceaselessly through layers of kimono, and the pain has lessened, but there’s a dig in his shoulder, enough to know mobility is limited. Pulling himself to a kneel, the stones in his stomach jump when he sees the daemon through blurry vision, and it’s not hard to see his brother in place of that monster. The cocksure stance, the angled jawline, the way he holds Stormhowl, it’s all the same, how could he not have noticed? Just the other day, Saburou was picking a fight with Ichirou at the dinner table for taking the last of the fishcake, and he’d wielded his chopsticks with a similarly lazy degree of twist in the wrist. Seeing the same mannerisms twisted to this degree wrenches something loose in Rokurou’s heart.

 _“Shigure!”_ the daemon bellows, in a series of rolling growls that leave it unclear whether it meant to call out the name, or if its shrieks just happen to resemble its cadence. Regardless, Saburou charges, attempts to swing both Stormhowls upon the woman’s head.

Shigure blocks the assault with nothing but her short swords, swiping up and parrying the blows in quick, measured strikes. She counters with a volley of swings so precise and aggressive, the daemon is beaten back several meters in spite of his advantage. Rokurou manages to worm his way to his feet, only one dagger still clutched in his grasp. His mother doesn’t even turn her head.

“If you can stand, you can run,” she tells him. “Find Lord Capalus. Defend him until you reach the capital. That is your duty as a Rangetsu.” The hilt of the God Blade winks at him in the moonlight, silent against his mother’s back.

“But Shigure-"

“Do it now, Rokurou.” There is no room for argument. Her word is law. Around Shigure’s heart is a steel cage, and whatever kernels of attachment she may or may not have are locked tightly behind its bars.

Rokurou makes a grunt of affirmation, the only manner of response she’ll seem to accept, and forces his wobbly legs away from the scene. He approaches the gates, the same ones he let Gorou drag him through just hours earlier. It feels like an eternity ago now, and the realization makes the impact of the last several minutes suddenly too much to bear. A flood of emotion chokes its way out of Rokurou’s throat, leaking fresh moisture into his eyes. _“Such weakness,”_ the Shigure of his mind scoffs, and Rokurou rubs furiously at his face with his dirtied sleeve.

Just before he turns the corner of the outer wall, he stops. Caught in the thick, spidery webbing of this scarlet nightmare, Rokurou takes one last glance over his shoulder, a vain attempt to hold onto the crumbling fragments of his old life.

His mother has her head tilted to the side, speaking far too softly to be meant for Rokurou’s ears, yet clearly not aimed toward the daemon. Like she’s addressing the air.

Whenever he’s glimpsed Shigure doing this, it’s always been by chance, when she’s by herself, in the gardens late at night, or whispering within her room at the end of the hall. Always in spaces that feel too private to intrude, where Rokurou even knowing feels like some manner of heresy. He’s never worked up the courage to ask her what she’s doing. Now he’s wondering if he ever will.

It lasts but a moment, and then Shigure’s attention is back on the monster, and now she’s saying something louder, more intentional. It riles Saburou up, and something explodes, and Rokurou takes that as his cue to really get moving. Turning on his heel, he sprints, and the carefully sustained grounds of the Rangetsu estate bleed out into untamed forest.

There are several routes to the lord's manor, but Rokurou knows better than to take the road. Foot traffic is common enough that there are several well-worn trails sidewinding up the mountain, but he avoids these as well, opting for a more hidden route, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Not even the residents of Ywain, the village nestled at the mountain’s base, would ever take heed of the roughly hewn trailhead more suited for wildlife than people, but Rokurou knows it like the back of his hand. He and his brothers - _brother_ , his mind corrects darkly - would use it to scale the peaks as part of their training. The grade of incline is much sharper here, the switchbacks notably absent, and the ground rough and unmaintained, but it’s as direct a path as he’s going to get. It’s close enough to the main road that Rokurou is confident he won’t overlook the Capalus carriage should it pass him on the way up, so really, he doesn’t see any reason not to take it. Speed and stealth must take precedence over his own comfort if he is to uphold the value of his mother’s expectations, and he’s positive he can make the journey, even with his injury.

He hops a fallen tree blocking the path and sprints the incline, overestimating the distance between his foot and the ground on that first step. He feels his full weight vibrate along his spine when his foot presses down too hard and his shoulder jostles from the impact. The shock nearly brings tears to his eyes, and his sinuses burn from the effort to keep from making a sound. His good hand tightens its grip on his surviving knife.

He’s _mostly_ positive he can make the journey.

His senses are frayed, stretched to their very limit, but still he pushes beyond to listen and watch for any signs of movement. He can hear what may be daemons or may be animals far off in the distance, and the howling winds that buffet the trees above. And something else. _Something_ that’s been trailing him, ever since he left the manor, just out of striking distance. It feels benevolent, like the beacon of a lighthouse, but Rokurou cannot go so far to say it feels safe. When he turns, a lonely sea of darkened trees is all he finds, but that can’t be right; it must be hiding nearby. Whatever this specter is, it feels _powerful_ , and that alone is enough to keep him wary. Every few minutes, his eyes dart left, right, behind. Nothing. Maybe he’s just going crazy.

Going back over the day’s events, he knows that Ichirou and several students of Shigure’s will be at the estate, not including the lord himself, his family, his retainers, his servants, any other visiting lords accompanied by their own staff. Anywhere from several dozen to several hundred people. It occurs to Rokurou that one or all of them could have become like Saburou, and it makes him realize that he doesn’t have any backup plan beyond fighting until he dies. Dying in combat is not in itself an unappealing plan - it is in fact the ideal exit of every Rangetsu - but the thought of his remaining brother becoming a monster, of having to fight him when he’s not even himself anymore, tears holes in Rokurou’s chest that ache and wheeze with each breath. He pushes his mind past those thoughts, towards the future, and thinks of the two of them sharing a bowl of anmitsu once they reach the capital. It’s not much, but it’ll do.

Rokurou is maybe halfway to the count’s mansion before he begins to lose pace, exhaustion hanging over him like the moon above, still so large and oppressive. Overhead, curtains of branches shiver in anticipation. Cold air strains against his shoulder, and he quivers with the wind.

Suddenly, his body springs to the left, quick reflexes saving him from a blow to his side. Air cuts past, pushing him back even farther with recoil as he dodges - what, exactly? Rokurou has the best hearing of his whole family, and there were no signs of anything breaking his guard, so what’s attacking? The moon should be just past its zenith now, but with the thick canopy of the forest, sight is proving difficult. No matter where Rokurou swings his view, he spies nothing but desolate forest ground, and it’s all he can do to maintain his defensive stance with wide, feral eyes.

The hairs on his arm prickle and he forces his legs into a backstep, nearly tripping, but grateful when it’s enough to avoid yet another blow, and he watches a section of tree carve out of existence to his right. Hair whips into his face, and the great mass groans, bending into the bite and collapsing with a deafening crack along its bark.

As the dust settles, he finally hears it: a faint, muted rumble, like ocean waves. It escalates in volume, sharpening into howls and snarls that ring inside his head and all around. There’s a massive, shrieking _tear_ , and Rokurou has to cover his ears as the head of an enormous serpent thrashes its way out of thin air, directly in front of him, all gnashing fangs and glowing violet eyes. Purple tendrils crawl along the base where a neck would normally be, creating a snaking cushion of smog beneath moon-pink teeth.

Rokurou has little time to process the logic of what’s just happened before he’s bringing the butt of his knife up to deflect the creature’s massive jaw.

“Get lost!” he shouts, bewildered, as the daemon winds back around. It’s glowing more fiercely now, a telltale sign of an arte. Rokurou hurriedly rifles through his list of techniques, tries to think of what he can use against this, wonders if he can even accomplish the feat with one arm. Only one idea comes to mind.

Time runs out and the serpent strikes, and Rokurou chokes on his scream as fangs the length of his arm slice against his wounded shoulder, barely avoiding both rows of teeth as they clamp down on the branches behind him. Using the opening, he thrusts the knife into the eye of the beast, and twists. The benefits of being on the early end of his growth spurt allows Rokurou to corkscrew with the momentum, vaulting the scaled head with ease and dragging the knife through the whole length of the cranium. He pushes his mana through the edge, slamming blast after blast into the daemon and grinning wildly when its pained cries register over the pounding in his ears.

He’s laughing even when his legs hit the ground and crumple like jelly, and he wonders if this is where he gives up the ghost. The ground warms with his blood, his shuddering gasps sounding more and more like a stranger's as lucidity fades. Here he was, worried about a daemonic brother, not even considering that he might be felled by - well, again, whatever _this_ is. Not the worst way to go, but damn, does he wish it could have waited a bit longer.

Looming over him is the specter from before. Must have taken its chance to sneak up during all the commotion, for now it's barely a hair’s breadth away. Rokurou can’t even muster the energy to brace against whatever’s coming, much less turn his body over to look. A mass of energy builds, casting sharp, frightening shadows against the trees, followed by the chime of a spell. The ground trembles violently beneath him, and then dozens of earthen spikes are erupting out of the rock. Where Rokurou expects to be impaled, he is instead filled with awe as stone lances pierce the wounded serpent over and over and-

Consciousness leaves Rokurou as the daemon shatters into smoke, much like how it’d appeared to begin with. Death is dark, and warm, and he swears he can hear a faint voice in the distance, garbled and familiar.

“Gorou…?” he manages to whisper, and regrets speaking immediately, as his shoulder throbs in response to his wakefulness.

“Nah,” the unmistakable drawl of Ichirou replies somewhere near Rokurou’s ear, “Just me.”

“Oh,” he replies. He’s being carried, cradled against his brother’s chest by a single arm, with several ropes and fabrics tied together to secure him further. It reminds him of how he’s seen women around the village secure infants for travel, albeit a much shoddier version. That rhythmic irritation he’s starting to notice in his wounds is from his brother’s brisk steps, and Rokurou has just enough energy to feel humiliated about the whole situation. “You can just leave me here to die, now.”

Ichirou laughs. His voice is too close, and his bellowing hurts Rokurou’s ears. “Wow, you get sassy when you bleed out. Is that any way to thank your big brother for coming to your rescue?”

Rokurou huffs and refuses to answer, falling against the warmth of his brother’s shoulder with as much irritation as he can muster. The older Rangetsu hums to fill the silence, Stormhowl shimmering over his back. Drawn and secured in his brother’s grasp, the blade is ready for the slightest hint of danger. It must be a lot of work, hauling Rokurou’s deadweight around in such a way while keeping the ōdachi upright, but Ichirou looks nothing but pleased by the challenge. Of _course_ Ichirou can handle a daemon onslaught with such a handicap, what sort of second-rate swordsman do you take him for? Rokurou really shouldn’t be surprised by the things his brother thinks he’s capable of.

From his vantage, faced over Ichirou’s shoulder, he can’t see much, but knows the carriages they’re escorting belong to the Capaluses. The retainer manning the one in immediate view is an older gentleman, appearing far too composed to have lived through the same night as him. There’s no doubt that at _least_ the count rests safely within the covered compartment of one of these transports. A handful of other students - less than Rokurou expected - are lined along the other carriages, but Rokurou suspects the count must be in the one Ichirou is guarding. A group of servants make up the back of the line, doing their best to keep pace and flee with some measure of protection.

The road stretches parallel to the river as far as Rokurou can see, meaning they're more than halfway down the mountain, and he’s been out for far longer than he cares to consider. The moon’s position reaffirms his suspicions, dipping far into the sky at this point, and he expects twilight to peak over the treetops at any moment.

The energy boost from his mother’s parting gift has long faded by now, and Rokurou can acutely feel every point of fatigue the spell had been masking. Not just the wounds on his shoulder, which alternate between prickling chill and bubbling anguish, but the bone-deep aches in his calves, the coarse dryness of his throat, and the tender blisters and bruises that pepper his soles and ankles from the trail's impurities.

It’s a wonder that he’s even alive at all. He wants to ask Ichirou how he found him, what happened at the manor, to the daemon, the specter, and so much more, but he curbs his appetite for now. Certain matters are more important than his curiosity. Besides, he’s not sure whether he could properly digest the answers. Rokurou’s had about all he can take of surprises for one night.

“Gorou is dead,” he says, having nothing else to offer as a starting point, “he was killed by a daemon. I think it was Saburou.” He doesn’t know exactly what being a daemon means, but he’s too prideful to let that ignorance slip into words. He figures he’s seen enough to have an idea, anyway.

“So, the bastard let it get to him, too.” Ichirou tuts, shaking his head. The barest hint of stubble on his chin bristles against Rokurou’s forehead. “Jirou used to tell him all the time not to take things so seriously.” He sighs, wistful, like he wants to say more, but the silence pervades. It makes Rokurou wish he knew more about Shigure’s second son beyond a tired-looking name on the family tombstone.

“Shame about Gorou, too,” Ichirou continues, “Always thought the kid was too soft. But at least you turned out fine. I _knew_ you were my favorite! Good job proving me right, Rokurou.” It’s the same as back then: praise layered between callousness, like a cake filled with needles. Rokurou buries his face further in his brother’s robes, glad to hide the pink in his cheeks. After everything that’s happened, he can’t tell whether he’s embarrassed, upset, or ashamed. Maybe all three.

His lack of response doesn’t seem to bother Ichirou in the slightest. “What about Shigure?” he asks, moonlight casting a strong line down his profile as he presses onward. If Rokurou were looking, he might have seen his brother’s gaze drift purposely off somewhere in the forest as he spoke.

“Don’t know,” Rokurou replies, “She was fighting the daemon, when she told me to go and protect the lord.” And what a good job he’s doing, too, arriving for duty so beat up he needs protection himself. Disgraceful.

Ichirou makes a noise of acknowledgement, and the two fall back into quiet, broken only by the chatter of horses. One of the carriage wheels is worn at an angle, and it squeaks with every third rotation. Where Rokurou expects the flutter of wildlife, there is instead an eerie emptiness. Light breezes rustle the trees, keeping him on edge.

He feels Ichirou’s left arm, the one supporting him, curl just a bit tighter around him, and it takes longer than Rokurou wants to admit to realize that it’s meant to be comforting. He tries not to show how the gesture actually settles his nerves, somewhat. When he throws his good arm around Ichirou’s neck, he plays it off as insurance in case his unreliable brother drops him. Ichirou doesn’t call his bluff.

The first sunbeams of a new day bleed through the thinning treetops. The road opens to a wide valley, nestled cozily within the chain of hills and mountains behind. A vast sheet of lakewater branches off into several fierce rivers, fed by glacial peaks even taller than the slopes of the Capalus domain. The highway winds off to the west, closer to where Ywain lay, but Rokurou doesn’t blame the caravan for taking the calmer route through the lakelands. The small size of their travelling party alone says plenty about what must have happened at the Capalus manor, and Rokurou witnessed the precursor to what’s likely befallen the Rangetsu abode. Who could say what would await them if they tried to stop in the fiefdom village? At least the lake serves an adequate moat for their makeshift camp.

Ichirou loosens the supports, but doesn’t untie them entirely - trust Ichirou to always be on guard. It makes Rokurou realize just how disoriented he is. The world spins, and he weakly grasps for purchase on Ichirou’s kimono, misses spectacularly, and pitches to the side. Thankfully his brother catches him, not that Rokurou would ever put a voice to his gratitude.

There are words, too, he realizes, things his sibling is saying to him, but he doesn’t have the frame of mind to do much more than grunt. His brother is trying to feed him some manner of food, and his head is jumbled far too much to focus on what’s in it. His brain latches onto “medicinal” during part of the explanation, so he opens his mouth and lets Ichirou feed him, and determinedly swallows all of the humiliation alongside the food. It’s hot, and his stomach coils painfully in sickness, but he forces it all to the side and impatiently opens his mouth for another bite. What must be years pass before the herbs kick in, and when the pain finally begins to ebb, he bodily melts.

He feels the rumbles of his brother’s laughter against his back more than he hears it, and tries not to think about how nice the rough pads of his fingers feel carding through his hair, no doubt covered in dirt and blood and maybe an ant or two. Someone drapes a blanket over the two of them, and Rokurou relishes in the warmth, as warm as memories from nearly a year ago about exorcists and ice cream.

“Ichi…” he tries, stops, can’t quite find the breath to say the whole name. He doesn't correct himself, and decides if Ichirou ever brings it up, he’ll claim amnesia.

“Hm?”

“Wwe shld get...yoz’kruh…an...mmm…” In his mind the words are clear, if only his mouth would cooperate. Keeping his eyes open is a monumental task as well, and Rokurou fights to keep from nodding off.

“It’ll be our first stop when we get to Loegres,” he hears above him. It sounds farther away than before. “So tough it out a little longer, alright _Roku_?” The last bit comes out in an infuriatingly teasing lilt.

 _Jerk_ , he thinks as his vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Rangetsu brothers, from oldest to youngest: Ichirou, Jirou, Saburou, Shirou, Gorou, Rokurou. RIP Shirou, who did not get even a mention in this chapter. That's what happens when you're the fourth son lmao
>   * Ichirou and Artorius: the prequel novel “A Witch's Tale” has a story about their first meeting, as a fight that ended prematurely. Ichirou used a sword called Tigerclaw, and vowed to have a rematch. This is also where it's mentioned that the only siblings even close to getting through his guard are Rokurou and Saburou
>   * ōdachi: literally translates to “large sword”; the proper term for Stormhowl. A long, curved katana, at least 3 shaku in length (~90cm or longer). Localized as “greatsword” in the game. Technically speaking, a greatsword in European context is a completely different, but really, you can translate ōdachi to greatsword with no issue. But I'll be using both depending on who's talking.
>   * Ywain: Arthurian reference based on Owain mab Urien. He was Urien’s son, aka Arthur’s nephew. He's typically portrayed as an excellent knight in several tales under various spellings of the name (Ywain being one of them), and was notably one of the last knights to die before Arthur. 
>   * Capalus fiefdom: According to “A Witch’s Tale”, it’s located in the mountains of Midgand. The translation is vague, so I'm not sure whether this means Midgand the region or Midgand the kingdom. Contextually, to me at least, it makes the most sense if it’s somewhere in that big unexplored area southeast of Mount Killaraus, but it also makes sense for it to be in the center of the Midgand region due to its proximity to the capital. /shrug I’ll make a decision where it actually is as I go along. In-game, the Capalus family is described as being on par with the Dragonias, and those dudes share a lineage with the Asgards - so the Capaluses are at least similarly important, maybe even having ties to the royal line themselves. Not much else is known, politically speaking, so I'm filling in the blanks myself.
> 

> 
> Uhh side note, I'm not _that_ fluent in Japanese, so I apologize for any errors [feel free to correct me, I love learning]. Most of my knowledge on lore/characters/etc. comes from EN Bersy, what little I can get out of JP Bersy, fan translations, and personal speculation. Some lore will get the deep-dive treatment, others will be reinterpreted/hand-waved as fits the story. The hope is that it will still make sense as a contained narrative, buuuut I'm barely even five chapters into this monster so we'll just see. How that works. Hahaha....


	2. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, Rokurou addresses the circumstances of a broken vase in his room at the royal villa.

From the upper floors of the royal villa, the view is breathtaking. Located on the southern edge of the capital, almost nothing impedes the grand panoramas of ocean waves on the horizon. Up here, above the treacherous daemon-infested highways, Teresa Linares could stare for hours outside these ceiling-high windows and let the currents pull her worries out with the tide. It’s a heartwarming fantasy, but in the back of her mind, Teresa knows full well that a fantasy is all it will ever be. Dreams are for children, and it’s time to wake up.

She turns away from the temptation of the faraway waves, and seeks out the faces of her newly acquired malakhim. The first one, the silver one, is sitting quietly at one of the tables near an adjacent window. It’s another perfect venue for gazing out at sea, yet the boyish creature stares only into the carpet, expression empty.

The gold one is missing. Again.

Teresa isn’t sure what to make of the spirits she’s been gifted with. According to Lord Melchior, their latent powers are a fitting match for her praetor level of resonance, yet they are unlike any malak she has ever encountered. Granted, her experience is limited to the malakhim she and the other initiates were loaned during their training in Lothringen Tower. It’s only natural that different tools take different forms.

But they look so _young_.

With the Silver one, she can almost disassociate form from function. No human adolescent could have such soulless eyes, could sit so still, like a doll. But the Gold one strays. He wanders, he explores. She’s even caught him _reading_ from time to time. Together, they could pass for twins, and it drives her mad with uncertainty. The Abbey’s lessons war with her eyes, eyes that look at two malakhim and see two children. Helpless, defenseless. Children she cannot reconcile sending into battle, not when her brother’s life may be on the line. Lord Melchior reminds her that they are mere resources, nothing to get attached to, yet she’s watched Gold recite history and describe paintings, and it reminds her so dearly of Oscar she can’t help but find overlap.

“But they _aren’t_ Oscar,” she tells herself, tries to tighten her resolve. Silver makes no indication he’s even heard her, unsettlingly calm.

“Who isn’t Oscar?” a familiar voice pipes in just over her ear, and Teresa whirls around so fiercely, she nearly backhands whoever’s managed to sneak through her guard.

It’s Rokurou. Of course it’s Rokurou.

With a bounce in his step, he dances out of her range, hands raised in peace. “Whoa, easy, Ice Queen! Didn’t mean to startle you. Just came to ask a favor.”

“What do you want?” she asks tersely.

The younger man rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. Bits of stray hair hang messily in his face, favoring the right side. They don’t quite cover his eyes, but nevertheless make Teresa want to brush them away out of impulse. She’s grown used to seeing Rokurou in the pristine trainee uniform of the Abbey. It did a lot to elevate his natural disarray into something more professional, elegant. What he wears now is more personalized, with looser folds that more gently follow his form. They remind her of the foreign robes she saw him wear when they first met, what must be going on nine years ago. He'd been so small back then, utterly dwarfed in the company of Lord Capalus’ entourage.

The outer robe is their standard snow white, awash in gold trim, ending above the knee with wide, elbow-length sleeves. Hints of a darker robe peek out beneath the white, a softer fabric that matches the snug trousers. A beautiful seafoam cape drapes over the right shoulder, sewn into the uppermost pad of the baldric and ending just above the waist; it's a striking contrast to the vivid royal blues that accent the primary Abbey uniforms. Color is one unifying symbol that leaves little room for variation, but green is a special case, reserved solely for those of Lord Melchior’s division. Emblazoned in gold upon the delicate cloth is the Abbey’s signature crest. The asymmetry of the ensemble is in complete opposition to the perfect mirror image of the Orderly attire. Begrudgingly, it suits him.

“I was hoping you’d lend me one of your malakhim,” he says hopefully, with a blinding smile. Teresa’s eyes narrow, picking his teeth for lies.

“And why, pray tell, would I do that?” Whatever Rokurou is hiding is either something foolish or something illegal. Possibly both.

“Weeelllll,” Rokurou trails off, grins a bit too widely.

The older exorcist pinches the bridge of her nose. “I thought you’d already been assigned your own malak?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t made a pact with him yet,” Rokurou says. “He, uh, is a bit of a feisty one. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmm, how do I put this,” Rokurou hums for a few moments. Creased brows betray how intensely he’s considering his next words. “He sorta, gets a little - punchy? When I get too close to him? I think I owe King Asgard at least one new vase.”

Teresa thinks she knows what he’s getting at. “So he acts out,” she says. Rokurou nods vigorously, like a puppy’s tail. “One of mine has been doing that as well. He’s not violent, but he’s escaped without permission a few times now. I usually find him in the library.”

“The library, huh? Sounds like a real nerd. I’m jealous.”

“It’s so strange, though,” she continues, irritation temporarily forgotten. “None of the ones we used during training ever behaved so erratically. Perhaps it’s just a common feature among greater malakhim?”

“Mmmm, maybe,” Rokurou says dismissively, reminding Teresa why she doesn’t usually engage the man in this sort of discourse. He hasn’t changed a bit.

“In any case, you’ve only yourself to blame. Weren’t you the one so rudely demanding ‘only the strongest malakhim’ from Lord Melchior? I’d say you’ve earned a strike or two.”

“Yikes.” Rokurou backs up a step. “Though, you’re not entirely wrong.”

If anything, she’s being generous. Rokurou has never been a subtle person, not when they were children and certainly not now. It’s always been about strength with him. With both brothers, really. She’s never seen two people more obsessed with fighting in her life. Though it serves a fantastic partnership on their missions, their one-track minds have proven time and time again to be just dreadful company.

Deeply, she sighs. “Take Silver,” she says, nodding to the stoic malak. The boy tilts his head upward, just a bit, and it’s the strongest sign of life she’s seen out of him all day. “He’s the more obedient of the two.”

“Silver, eh? Kinda on the nose with that one, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t actually named him yet,” she admits, “I may have hesitated somewhat in forming contracts with them, myself.”

“Teresa Linares, late on anything? The world must be ending.”

“Rangetsu,” she warns, “Do not test my generosity.”

“Fine! Fine!” The boy is sincere, yet something about his complete nonchalance makes Teresa want to smack him anyway. “It’s not a bad name, though. It’s got some charm to it.”

“Well, I was thinking of naming them-” She stops. The very thought is absurd.

“Thinking of naming theeem?” Rokurou leans in with mischief in his eyes.

“Forget it.”

“If you think I’ll make fun of you, I won’t,” he tries again, invitation melting off his tongue. “You’re leaving soon for Hellawes anyway, right? So it won’t matter whether you tell me or not.”

“You are a glutton for punishment.”

“Sure am.”

This time, she does smack him, a brief push right in his chest. “Don’t be proud of that sort of greed, it’s unfitting for an exorcist of your rank.” As the man snickers, it occurs to her that if she remains silent, Rokurou will only pester her at every opportunity until her ship is on the other side of the horizon. She can’t imagine a worse way to spend her last few days in the capital. “I was thinking of naming them after the Silver Knight and the Golden Unicorn.” She turns, letting her bangs hide her eyes. Admitting it out loud feels even more foolish than she feared it would.

“Oh, from that one history book, right? The Knight from Afar, Whatshisname. Gruner?”

“ _Gilland_.”

Rokurou holds his chin in his hand, looking at Teresa with a face full of nostalgia. “Oscar really liked that one, didn’t he? I remember he used to play with all the little figures. Do your malakhim remind you of him?”

“My little troublemaker was reading a book about them once. I just thought it might be fitting. That’s all.”

Soft laughter reaches her ears, and she feels the tips burn.

“Wow, that’s surprisingly cute, coming from you."

“Enough,” she says with finality. “You’ve gotten what you came for. This conversation is over. I expect Silver back by the afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rokurou smiles. She watches out of the corner of her eye as the swordsman approaches her malak, makes a show of bending to his knees to see him at a closer level.

“Ready to come with me, little buddy?” he asks delicately. If this were a normal child, they would respond properly. Instead, Silver just stares, uncomprehending. Rokurou holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s go. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Okay,” the boy mumbles, completely neutral as he lets Rokurou lead him away.

“Thanks, Teresa! I owe ya one!” Rokurou hollers over his shoulder. Teresa raises an arm in acknowledgement and watches them vanish from sight down the halls.

With the last of her distractions ferried away, she feels her anger tangle and knot in her stomach. They’re just _tools_. Yet even clueless, careless Rokurou speaks to them as if they’re _intelligent_.

Teresa takes one last heartfelt stare out the window, wishing longingly for the ocean before she makes for the stairs. Gold won’t come back on his own, after all. She’ll use this next meeting as a test. Right or wrong, it will settle her feelings for good on the matter.

“Maurits silk would be best,” she mutters to herself, and tries to remember which shop it was where she saw travel bags on display. Gold seems to be enamored with books, after all. He may as well have something to carry them in.

____

There’s no shame in the relief that floods when Rokurou opens the door to see only the one vase strewn in pieces along the floor. Several imagined scenarios that found the place ransacked, on fire, or otherwise destroyed could now rest easy in the back of his mind. A lost vase is not the end of the world, but it sure sets one hell of a tone. It's a nice vase - or, _was_ a nice vase - lacquered white with intricate gold patterns along the edges and finely painted orchids adding a regal purple flourish. But it's not like he picked the decor himself or anything, he's barely been in Loegres for more than a few days. His meager contributions to the royal suite have amounted to his clothes, his weapons, and a handful of books - and most of _those_ were gifts from Teresa.

Three ceiling-high shelves along the back wall overflow with an impressive personal library, intermittently broken up by an assortment of trinkets and bookends that are probably older than he is. Truthfully, he's barely even walked to that half of the room, much less taken the time to investigate its offerings. There's a nice armoire, and a pillowy lounge chair beside it, but they pale in comparison to the four-poster bed stretched over the room’s other half. It's one of those luxury plush things, with a full canopy and polished wood frame - way fancier than anything Rokurou has ever slept in, way fancier than he probably deserves.

So, he supposes, to focus on the positive, good riddance! Forget that vase! If he can't use it to sleep, really, what is the point?

Standing at attention several feet to the side of the wreckage is the perpetrator, silent and unmoving. If not for the subtle motions of breathing, it’d be easy to mistake them for a statue. Perhaps it had been a bit reckless to approach without establishing a pact first, but Rokurou’s never been one to put caution over curiosity.

 _“This one needs an especially tight leash,”_ he recalls Melchior saying. Initially, Rokurou had thought the old man was pulling his leg. Wouldn't be the first time, after all. Dumping a weird malak on him is either some sort of test, or Melchior's way of passing off a thorn in his side. Wouldn't be the first time _that's_ happened either.

He'd been warned about the malak's more aberrant tendencies: prone to sudden, often violent outbursts, with several ‘noteworthy incidents’ befalling previous exorcists. According to the reports, even a handful veteran praetors have given up trying to tether him. For such a relatively recent addition to the Abbey, the rumors about this guy are plentiful, and really, Rokurou can’t say he blames him. If he’s this new, he must have been captured, likely by force, prior to being bound. Not exactly a favorable first impression.

From a first glance, he certainly _looks_ ordinary. Like the other Abbey malakhim, his entire head is hidden beneath a helmet modeled after a dragon, the very symbols of calamity exorcists swear to protect against. Loose, airy clothes leave too much to the imagination, locked in gold cuffs at the wrists and ankles. The only distinction between this one and his brethren is the vivid orange of his tunic marking him as an earth spirit. The more Rokurou appraises the uniform, clinically sterilized of all personality, the more unnerving it is.

There's a malak that accompanies his brother, a pleasant soul the shape of a plump cat, with large, round eyes and a razor sharp tongue. Rokurou’s spent more than enough time with her to know how vibrant and colorful her kind can be, which is a polite way of saying he's experienced both her incredible wit and her devilishly accurate claws.

Every now and then, he’s even caught sight of Artorius’ malak, and what a shame to hide if all malakhim are as pretty as her. Sometimes he sees her out and about by herself, too, which is especially strange, but not so strange Rokurou cares to know why. Loegres is hiding plenty of secrets, but it's not Rokurou's job to keep track of them all. Not out of moral obligation by any means - much to his peers’ chagrin, Rokurou's worked hard to cement his reputation as a troublemaker - but moreso out of boredom. Religious conspiracies and political gossip inspire about as much ruckus in him as delivering sermons. Besides, he has Ichirou for that sort of talk: five or eight bottles of sake between them, and the _things_ that man will _say_. Rokurou never remembers them after the inevitable blackout, but intuition tells him they were _something._

From outside the room, Silver is set up against the wall, barely visible as he peers around the doorframe, silent and ghostly. Rokurou grins at him and signals to initiate the plan. Silver raises his hands to begin casting. Glyphs sprout from the center of the room, weaving lines of energy that form a net spanning all the way up to the ceiling. Where the walls of the cage converge, the edges knot themselves together, forming a seamless barrier that loses its opaqueness upon completion. It’s good, clean work, barely perceptible to the naked eye. Rokurou gives a low whistle.

“Nicely done, kid,” he praises, appearing unbothered by the child’s lack of response. He turns his attention to his trapped guest. “Now, to deal with you.”

All it had been was the slightest brush of a hand against the smooth polish of the headpiece. He'd only wanted a quick peek at what was underneath, but that single touch triggered the malak’s defenses. Rokurou barely managed to divert the fist that flew his way. If he were a hair slower, the tragedy of King Asgard’s vase would have befallen his neck. Put in that perspective, Rokurou’s even happier to see the gaudy thing go.

Making a final assessment of the barrier’s strength, Rokurou takes a breath and steps inside, preparing himself for Plan B's next phase. There’s no particular reason Plan B is what it is - he didn't exactly have much of a Plan A for starters - but it sure helps Rokurou feel like he knows what he’s doing. And confidence, he’s been told, is often half the battle.

With a practiced ease, he recites the beginning lines of a pact. Nothing more than template verses, lacking the poeticism or nuance of a proper vow, and painfully reminiscent of dry lectures in a stuffy old tower. The arte glows warmly against his skin, forming a bridge between their mana. Gently prodding at this new connection causes several rings, glowing with words in the ancient tongue, to expand from the malak’s core: the true purpose behind this empty vow. The rings are a living document of sorts, housing remnants of pacts, artes, binds, all manner of spellwork within their glyphs. Learning to read and manipulate these formulae is a skill that takes months, years even, to perfect. Rokurou is by no means an expert, but one advantage he does have is a sharp eye. Sure enough, glittering fresh along the outermost edge is the pact Rokurou just initiated. The twinkling characters stop mid-sentence at a point near the ring’s center, eager for completion.

Rokurou turns away from the glow to examine the other rings, looking for a very specific signature. Any other exorcist would be naming their new servant by now, but Rokurou’s aim is a tad different.

There’s a quiet collection of runes tucked into one of the central bands. Months of repetition in Lothringen have made the arte so familiar he recognizes the shape of the spell long before he bothers to read it. It takes the caster’s mana and forms a binding link on the target, which is likely the only reason a malak as hard-headed as this one has managed to stay collared for so long. It’s impressive, really, the extent he’s able to resist in spite of how much power must be working against him.

But a binding arte isn’t what Rokurou wants. Doesn’t mesh well with his style, certainly not if it causes unpredictable aggression. He's not above being underhanded, but having a malak partner means nothing if they can't be reliable. Anticipation rushes through his veins as he levels his hand with the verse. Mana pours through his fingers, more than ready to crush the binding clause and release the malak’s true nature. All he needs is a little more-

He stops, moments before his mana condenses, an instinctive reflex that takes him by surprise. Something isn't quite right. There’s an irritant in the air, like a hair in his eye.

There, in the lowest band. Rokurou can see them peeking through the gaps of the rings above. Peculiar, fuzzy characters that give the impression of spilled water on ink, trailing faint afterimages that leave Rokurou’s vision blurry. No matter how hard he squints, they refuse to focus.

Kneeling for a closer inspection, Rokurou blinks several times to clear the spots from his eyes. The warped characters come near the end of a basic algorithm for spell upkeep, which makes their behavior even more unusual.

What if he just-

Rokurou redirects his mana toward the anomaly, and without a second thought, gives their edges a soft _tug_. In a flurry of colors, threads of alien matrices burst from the glyphs, webbing out to form entire circles of angry red against the softer whites and purples.

“Well, shit.”

What he thought might have been an abnormal decay in the mana ring is actually something far more purposeful: loose threads of an arte sandwiched between layers of mana as a hasty attempt to conceal it from prying eyes. The warping space of the torn runes is subtle enough that most would pass it off as a trick of the eye. Melchior’s handiwork, for sure. What it’s doing here, so intentionally tucked away, raises questions Rokurou doesn’t know if he wants the answers to.

It’s a geas, that much he’s sure of, but that’s about as far as his awareness goes. Geasa artes are beyond Rokurou’s level of tutelage. Advanced artes can bind, manipulate, and erase, but a single geas can do all of those and more at once, for an indefinite length of time - a geas can _compel_ , it can _punish_ , and it can _control_ with a complexity that the average spellcaster could never mimic. It’s less an arte than a curse. Formulae Rokurou can’t even begin to describe race across his vision without a hint of familiarity, and several minutes fly by as the young legate struggles to figure out what the compulsion even does.

“So the target is obviously _you_ ,” he says, nodding toward his bound friend. His hands make slow chopping motions, like the gestures might somehow guide his train of thought. “But _why_?” A small, rational piece of him tries to assert that whatever he's stumbled upon doesn’t involve him. He should forget he ever saw it. But there’s a larger, nagging voice that’s ushering him to dig deeper, and, well, it’s already been touched on how well Rokurou handles curiosity.

So deeper he digs. Just a little bit won't hurt. Melchior’s prowess is laughably out of his league, so it’s only a matter of time before sheer intellectual distance stops his fiddling anyway. A sizable ache prods at his lower back from hunching for so long, but Rokurou pays it no mind. He stares at a particular string of symbols, pulling at every scrap of memory he can about the ancient tongue and regretting how little it amounts to.

If he’s reading this thing correctly – and that’s a big if – the target’s compulsion has something to do with their proximity to the exorcist. What the particulars of that compulsion are, or what happens if they’re breached, Rokurou hasn’t the faintest idea. It’s barely worth pretending his translation attempt does him any favors.

Under what circumstance would this sort of arte need to be used? And kept _hidden_ , no less?

He re-examines the malak in a new light now, brow lifting. “Is _this_ the ‘tighter leash’ he was talking about?” The spirit ignores him. He returns his gaze to the rings, half hoping an epiphany might hit if he stares long enough. “Seems like overkill if you ask me.”

There’s plenty more to the knotwork of jargon, but it may as well be a hideous painting for how much Rokurou gets out of it. Eventually he rolls his wrist over the diagrams, and they curl back into place like a lounging cat. It’s all very interesting, if a bit concerning, but ultimately not what needs focus. As cruel as it sounds, it can wait.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” he says, coming to a stand, right knee aching from resting on the stone. “Remind me to ask Teresa about that later.” Rokurou fills the stifling quiet with his own laughter, and returns to neutralizing the binding arte.

All it takes is a motion of his hand and a push of his mana for the spell to crumble like perfectly flaky pie crust between his teeth.

Unfortunately, what comes next is not so easy.

Considering their rough introduction, Rokurou would be a fool not to expect another punch. He’s ready to block or dodge, but nothing could have prepared him for the dozen lengths of chain that erupt from the floor instead. Ethereal ropes of liquid gold snake around his limbs and pull him harshly to his knees. Even with all his strength, he can barely keep his arms at chest height. It takes him by surprise, tears his focus for just a second-

-and _then_ a fist, solid as bedrock, slams into his cheek. Time feels achingly slow as the blow rattles against his teeth, snapping his neck harshly to the side. He slumps against the restraints with a groan as the room tilts, again and again.

He coughs, spits out saliva, finds it speckled with blood from a cut lip. His head pulses hot from the point of impact. Chuckling behind a curtain of tussed hair, he turns his grimace into a lazy smirk with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

“You _are_ full of surprises,” he repeats, eyes bright with adrenaline, “I’m starting to like you, malak.”

The malak ignores him, making a break for the window. Two paces in, he hits the edge of the barrier. Seeming unbothered by the obstruction, his fists fly, punching into the walls with relentless grit. Gold sparks erupt with each clash, but still the cage stands. When it’s clear that force alone isn’t good enough, the man growls, and turns back toward the bound exorcist. Even through the wall of clothing, the rage is palpable, and Rokurou feels the hairs on his neck stand.

“Release the barrier,” a voice demands, surprisingly deep. The draconic headpiece darts left and right as the malak takes in his surroundings, possibly for the first time.

“Sorry, not happening,” Rokurou replies easily, “Not til you and me have a little chat, first.”

“Tch,” the malak scoffs, “We’ll see about that.”

With the pact hanging unfinished between them, the connection of their mana also remains unsevered. Back in the lecture halls of the Abbey, Rokurou was taught how to use that connection to siphon power, send orders, even directly control tethered malakhim. But he’s seen the reverse in action as well, watched his own brother struggle to even bend his fingers within Morgrim’s domain. Call it carelessness on his part, but Rokurou doesn’t even consider the possibility until he feels that channel between them flare up with the malak’s influence.

“Oh-” is all he manages before the link floods.

Caught off guard - _twice,_ now, what an embarrassment - it’s an uphill battle for Rokurou to fight the seizure of his limbs. Against his will, his fingers curl and stretch, almost experimentally. The malak grunts, arm raised in concentration, and the energy magnifies, sending ripples of mana all across his body. Rokurou shivers in sharp, jittery motions, instinctively struggling to wrench himself free. 

Then, all at once, something _pulls_ , and it’s a surreal sensation of puppet strings, thousands of them, screaming in deafening chorus to every cell in Rokurou’s body to _get on the ground_. He’s still on his knees, tangled in chains, and he can’t help the choke of discomfort as they dig long, twisting welts into his skin. Molten fire licks at his wrists, blood dripping from his fingertips.

The pressure is nearly unbearable. _Nearly_. A few moments is all it takes for Rokurou to catch his breath, to realize he still _can_ , that his lungs haven't been squeezed into raisins. His muscles spasm, but there’s a notable awareness buzzing in the back of his mind that nothing is in danger of breaking. He's being held, teetering, just over the edge of a cliff, one slip from plunging. A foreboding layer of mercy.

“Last chance,” the threat calls out, and Rokurou almost can't hear it over the pounding in his ears.

Straining to lift his head, Rokurou settles his gaze where he imagines the malak’s eyes to be. He should use this moment to try to connect with the spirit, refocus on the negotiation part of his plan.

Naturally, he does not do anything of the sort.

“Like to see you try,” he says instead, taken by the desire to see how far the malak will go.

“Your funeral.”

“Tch, we’ll see about tha-” Rokurou's taunt is rudely cut off as he is flung from the cliff, stomach flying to his throat as the weight of the world drops upon him.

In that instant the chains dispel, and his body races to the ground in blind fervor. He throws his arms in front, a futile attempt to cushion the impact as elbows slam against stone. The skin of his palms tear as they grate over the tiles. Air is knocked from his lungs in one burst, and his throat constricts tightly. Against his ribs, his heart pounds painfully; it seems even his organs are aiming to claw their way out. If the situation weren't so dire, Rokurou might find it amusing. Had he been expecting any different? Certainly not, this is exactly what he'd asked for.

A groan seeps out of his throat as he attempts to lunge back against the mana link. Where Rokurou’s previous connections were an open valley between exorcist and malak, this one is durable, but thin, more like a fishing line. Forcing pebbles through a straw sounds more feasible than the daunting task of overpowering the malak, and there’s a quiet, visceral moment where Rokurou fears he might not be strong enough.

He steels himself against the fear. He’s a Rangetsu. If he can’t deter the domain of a single malak, he doesn’t deserve to be here. Focusing all of his will, his stubbornness, his pride, Rokurou throws everything he has against the malak's invasive hold.

Almost to his own disbelief, it's enough. With a startled gasp, the dam bursts, and mana pours into the room in a fountain of light. Relief from the crushing pressure of the domain comes sickeningly fast, vacuumed out from the tear in their link in a writhing mass of hands that claw hungrily at the energy between them. Rokurou rakes at the ground, scratching lines along the rock out of a desperate need to hold onto something. What’s left behind is a bone-deep exhaustion he’s only felt after long days of grueling training, and he gulps down air with the vigor of a starving man.

Across the room, the malak too is leaning with a bow in his back, breaths equally labored. He must not have expected Rokurou to give him such a struggle, or for the link to take such a toll on him. As difficult as it was to manipulate a line that thin, it ultimately worked in Rokurou’s favor, as it made the malak’s domain comparatively more fragile. Rokurou shudders to think of what would’ve happened if their pact had been finished - the more experienced malak would probably have had little trouble keeping him underfoot, or simply crushing his bones to powder, which is a pretty scary thought in retrospect. Now that he’s felt it firsthand, Rokurou has an all-new appreciation for what Morgrim’s put his brother through.

“Well-” Rokurou wheezes. Sweat dots his brow, strands of hair sticking to him in uneven clumps. Letting his cheek rest against the floor, cool and solid, is soothing. It’s unbelievable the amount of stamina the malak has, still able to stand while Rokurou has trouble even feeling his arms. “Gotta say. That was - impressive. _Haah_.”

“Praise - is wasted - from the likes of you,” the malak says darkly. Once his breathing is under control, he approaches the downed swordsman with the aura of an executioner. “Release the barrier, and maybe you’ll live another day.”

Rokourou laughs, and something rattles in his lungs. “Feels kinda stupid - to be saying this now, after what you just pulled. Even if you killed me, you'd still be stuck. You can’t escape the barrier by yourself, and you’re right in the heart of Abbey headquarters.” He lets the implication hang, waits for the other to connect the dots.

The malak raises his hand, flexing his fingers ominously. “There are methods more painful than death, if you insist.”

“Come on, even if you _did_ escape, just how far do you think you’d get?” He doesn’t need to see the malak’s face to know he’s called the bluff. “You’re wearing the uniform of a tethered malak. This is the capital, not just swarming with exorcists, but other humans, and you have no vessel. It's not worth it.”

“I’ll take that chance,” he says, but there's a notable falter in his tone.

Rokurou clicks his tongue. It’s just his luck to get a malak this stubborn. "I take it you and the Abbey didn't exactly get off on the right foot, but they fight for a good cause. Why not stay?"

"My reasons are none of your business."

“Maybe not, but here you are anyway. Can’t hurt to have a conversation, can it?"

The malak responds by casting a spell. With a flick of the wrist, Rokurou visibly sags into the ground as what little energy he'd managed to recover is stolen away. Smug bastard, standing there like _he's_ the one holding all the cards. It's probably good Rokurou can't move his arms, or he might just call the whole negotiation thing off in favor of knifing the man's kneecaps.

"Hey,” he says, quickly, with effort to keep his tone light, even as the malak is closing the distance between them, bending over, grabbing his hand in a menacing vice. He kneels with one boot pressed into Rokurou's arm, right where it meets the shoulder. The threat rings loud and clear. "Hold on a sec-"

"One second, one finger," the malak replies, leveraging Rokurou's pinky against his thumb and pressing the joint back, until he feels the muscle strain. 

"Whoa, now, no need to be hasty!"

The malak counts off, " _One_."

"There's a geas on you," Rokurou blurts. Inwardly, he wants to slap himself. There goes any foothold for his argument. If the malak didn't think he was lying before, he certainly must now.

Pale fingers flinch against his hand, pushing his finger hard enough to make Rokurou wince.

"Talk. Now."

No need to tell Rokurou twice. "The pact I started. It’s enough for the geas to see you as my malak-”

“I am not _your_ malak,” the other seethes.

“-it compels you to stay close to me. If you break it, you’ll die.” To be fair, he doesn’t know that for certain, but it’s a reasonable assumption, and Rokurou doesn’t exactly have the luxury to mince words.

The malak stiffens in horror, or maybe rage. If Rokurou weren't so indisposed, he'd shrug. “Old man must think you’re really important,” he says into the chilling silence. He's already walking on eggshells, he should take care not t- “That, or he thinks you’re a really big pain in the ass. I’d believe both.” Teresa was right, he is a glutton for punishment.

A howl of pain erupts as his pinky shatters beneath the thumb of divine karma. It helps drown out the insistent little voice in Rokurou's head telling him, _"You asked for it"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Teresa and her malakhim: reference to a short story in the official World Guide. There's a translation by a blogger named Caphi that can be found [here](https://medium.com/@gtcaphi/tales-of-berseria-true-name-12c18a5629d1). Definitely give it a read, it's really interesting, and many, many ♥s to Caphi for posting a translation. It's not really necessary reading for this fic, but I do make a few allusions to it here and there (the maurits silk bag and the Gilland/unicorn ideas, for instance).
>   * The name Gilland is probably in reference to Tales of Xillia. The Unicorn of Umacy is probably a reference to Tales of Symphonia.
>   * Rokurou misremembering the name as “Gruner” is a reference to Gall Gruner from Tales of Hearts
>   * I am taking so many liberties with how the intricacies of artes work oops they’re like magic programming or some junk /shrug
>   * I'm not a big fan of using arte names in fic. Lol No shade at all to those who enjoy it, I certainly don't mind reading it, I just don't do it myself. That said, I do try to keep in mind movement and spells the characters actually have in their game toolkit when writing, so have fun guessing what characters are using.
> 



	3. Invoke Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pact is forged.

"Son of a-"

Behind the door of a luxurious suite, deep in the corners of the Asgard family’s royal villa, two men paint a bizarre picture. One is an exorcist, lying boneless on the floor with a freshly snapped pinky, breaths coming harshly through his nose; the other an earth malak, covered head to toe in the colors of Midgand's church, which do nothing to alleviate the aura of aggression surrounding him. The malak bends the exorcist's ring finger at a precise angle, dangling the joint with the appraisal of a hawk.

"Remove the geas," he commands.

The exorcist, Rokurou, chews on the long list of expletives he'd like to fire back. Gritting his teeth, beads of sweat collecting on his nose, he says as evenly as he can, "I don't - know how." As a Rangetsu, he's been through worse than a broken finger, but just because he can endure pain doesn't mean he enjoys it.

"Explain." Knuckles, lined white with scars and calluses, pinch their hostage as a needless incentive.

"Uh, first, how bout you heal my finger?"

"Do what I say and I won't break the next one."

Rokurou grumbles. It's a tempting thought to spit all over that stupid helmet. "I barely even know what it does. How do you expect me to remove something I can't read?"

"I thought you exorcists were all masters in wielding artes?"

"Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear. Besides, this goes way beyond the skills of your average exorcist."

"Then dissolve the pact. That will sever your ties to the geas.”

"That's not how geasa work. I've seen what goes into making those things, it's insane. Not to mention it was hidden using some pretty intricate artes. They wouldn't put that much effort into it if it could be undone so easily." Now that it’s active, dissolving the pact would do little to influence the geas anyway. At best, it would continue to function as intended. At worst, it might revert back to its last state of activity, back to one of the malak’s previous tethers. And if any of those exorcists were outside the range of the spell, well-

A noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, rumbles out of the malak. "Who _can_ remove it?"

"Melchior's the only one I know who can use artes like that.” Rokurou blames the boot digging into his neck for his fidgeting. Definitely _not_ from how intimidated he is. “But with my line of work, I could get access to that kind of information. I can't help you now, but I could, given the time."

The malak hesitates. And praise Innominat, so does the finger-breaking. "Why should I trust you?"

"Did you forget I unbound you? I could have just tethered you like any other exorcist, but I wanted to talk to you first _._ Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Only that you're an idiot that doesn't understand what he's doing."

“Um, okay, rude. I understand plenty, I’ll have you know.”

“And look where it’s gotten you.”

Rokurou bites down on his lip as his hand is jostled. It’s not until he finds his body angled toward the ceiling rather than the ground that he realizes he’s swung his other hand over, grasping loosely at the malak’s sleeve in a silent plea. The malak doesn't react at all, which must say a lot for how pathetic this must look, fingers pale and shaking, teeth stained lightly with pink.

“Look. I just want to talk. Believe it or not, I'd rather you not get yourself killed.” He'd rather not get _himself_ killed either, but he has a hunch that would do little to convince the malak of anything.

Quiet reigns while the malak considers his options. Time as a concept has been burnt out of Rokurou’s awareness, so who’s to say whether it’s minutes or hours later when he finally feels a familiar warmth envelop his hand, knitting together bone and muscle and skin. It’s not a perfect fix: the appendage still throbs, there’s a slight creak in the joints when he flexes, and the skin is still tender and red, but the breaks have all been mended soundly. He wagers the finger will be back to full fitness within a day or two.

Releasing the hand without much delicacy, the earth spirit takes a few steps back, well out of range of whatever nonexistent tricks could be up Rokurou’s sleeve. Joke's on him, Rokurou ran out of those several bones ago. Despite the show of a truce, the malak's guard never wavers. It’s the kind of rugged pride Rokurou can’t help but respect, albeit grudgingly.

“Say your piece,” he says curtly, arms crossed.

Rokurou lets out a breath, too tired to cover his relief. Normal people would see a lesson to all this, but if he's being honest, he'd do it all again. Witnessing the malak’s ferocity in action told him more than a couple of words ever could.

The numbness in his arms finally begins to settle, enough to lift himself shakily into a sitting position. Sliding back against the armoire, edges of hand-carved oak dig into his shoulders, but it’s easy to ignore if it allows him to meet the malak’s gaze with some manner of dignity.

“Name's Rokurou. Rokurou Rangetsu. There’s a guy here I have to beat, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen." Pride swells in his voice then. "Where I come from, we follow a creed: ‘always return that which you’ve borrowed, even if the payment is your life’.”

He waits in case the malak has anything to say. He doesn’t.

“I’m not asking for servitude.” Rokurou raises his hand over his heart, almost in pledge. It’s a rare moment of seriousness for him, and he wants to convey that unmistakably. “Rather, a partnership. I need someone to stand as my equal, push me beyond my limits. And I'll gladly honor them in turn, in whatever ways I am able, until the debt is repaid.”

Rokurou watches the other carefully, noting any subtle changes in posture. His guard is still high, but it’s starting to lose its harsher edges. Reminds him of a stray cat. Cautious, but undeniably drawn in.

“So, how’s about it?” He tilts his head to rest more comfortably against what feels like a mass of wooden roses. “Not a bad deal, right?”

The malak hasn't moved since crossing his arms. Face hidden as it is, it's hard to tell what he makes of the invitation. From how many unfavorable moods he's seen so far, Rokurou is not a fan of his odds.

“Tell me something, exorcist,” the malak says, pinched with doubt. “Why’d you go picking a fight if this was what you were after?”

“You started it,” Rokurou counters. “Wanted to see what you’d do, test your strength a bit. I liked what I saw, figured you’re just what I’m looking for.”

The helmet is static, yet Rokurou has the distinct impression he’s being glared at. “If I’m supposed to be your equal, why did you wait to mention the geas?”

“I vaguely recall asking you to remind me about it later.” The malak bristles, and Rokurou immediately raises his hands in peace. “Sorry, sorry. I was planning to tell you after our pact. Didn’t want it to feel like a threat.”

“But it _is_ a threat.”

“Well - yeah, I suppose. Guess I could have worded that one better, but I’m just as surprised to see that thing as you are. Melchior certainly didn’t warn _me_ about any of this, and like I mentioned earlier, I’d be happy to help you remove it.”

Rokurou watches the eyes on the dragon tilt to the side, thoughtful.

“So you’ll remove the arte if I help you win some fight?”

“ _Some fight_ ?” Rokurou echoes with a shake of his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. This is more than just _some fight._ We’ll get that arte, but that won’t make us even. You won’t be rid of me that easy.” There’s a brief pause. “That, and it might take a bit to figure out how to remove it. Malak artes aren’t exactly my forte.”

“The one you mentioned earlier, Melchior,” the malak says, “Is he the one that bound me?”

“Beats me. You're the one who was bound, so that should be my question, right?”

Silence only heightens the stunned anger that simmers beneath the mask. After a long, uncomfortable stretch, where Rokurou wonders how many slip-ups he has left before his luck runs out, the spirit speaks, poison dripping off his words. “I don't - remember - much - since I was brought here.”

“Right, that’s, uh - that makes sense.” _Dumbass,_ Rokurou chides himself, even he should know that much. Why did he open his mouth to begin with? “Well, let’s see. I guess it could have been any of us. All exorcists can weave a tethering arte, it's how we’re taught to form pacts. Melchior’s _definitely_ the one who put that geas on you, though. No one else in the Abbey could pull off something that complicated.”

“And what exactly is your relation to him?”

“I’m his student.” Rokurou shrugs. “Sort of. ‘Shadow training’ is what he called it. He works with my brother, so I’ve met him a bunch since I was a kid. Him, Artorius, and the senior exorcists spent the last year helping train us new recruits. Does he have whatever it is you’re looking for?”

“Not exactly,” the malak says ambiguously. “Who’s to say I’m even looking for something at all?”

“Well, you sure seemed in a hurry to leave.”

“Is it so strange to want to leave when I never asked to be here in the first place?”

"Fair enough." What was that saying again, something about patience, something about virtue? Rokurou expects fate to cut him a hefty bargain for how much he has to stop from grabbing the malak by the hood and rattling the answers out of him. His goal is to earn trust. Can’t let the other’s abrasive behavior get under his skin. As long as he gets what he wants, it makes little difference in the end. “I suppose it’d be rude to keep pressing, so I won’t ask again.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“If it’s important enough, you’ll tell me on your own terms. Otherwise, how am I going to be any use to you?”

“What if it means going against your mentor?”

Now that's a turn. Rokurou's smile widens. “You implying we might?”

Just as vaguely: “You implying you _will?_ ”

“Well, that surely depends on a lot of factors, but the short answer is I’ll try. Who knows, might be fun.” What would make a rogue malak want to draw the ire of one of the most powerful men in the world? Even if it's just a bluff, it's quite the bluff to make in the face of an exorcist. Color Rokurou intrigued.

“You’re an odd one,” the malak says, but it doesn't feel like an insult.

“I’m a _Rangetsu._ ”

That earns a bit of laughter, his first victory yet. “So I’ve heard.”

Tension slowly melts out of the malak’s shoulders as he leans into his right side. Hands rest on his hips, head cocked at an angle. A far more relaxed position.

“Very well, exorcist,” he says, and squares his feet. “But let me make one thing clear. You mentioned your creed earlier. I have one of my own. My path is mine to control, and mine alone. I won’t let you or Melchior or even fate tell me otherwise.”

The malak lifts his left arm purposefully, hand in a fist with the knuckle of the thumb facing up. Rokurou watches the fist make a methodical, arcing motion, thumb springing up very slightly. The gesture is completely lost on him.

“I’ll get you that win,” he swears, “but only because _I_ choose to. That’s my way.”

Proudly silhouetted against the window’s light, the malak stands in the very image of fortitude. From Rokurou’s seat on the ground, the spirit seems larger than life, and he can’t help but admire the conviction in his words.

“Well, who am I to argue after a speech like that?” Using the armoire as a brace, Rokurou drags his weary legs into a stand. Pushing away from the cabinet, he rolls his shoulders and neck, pleased by the satisfying cracks they make. “Shall we get this pact wrapped up, then?”

“One last thing,” the malak interjects, “Consider it a warning.”

Rokurou raises his brow, but says nothing.

“You say you weren’t aware of the artes this Melchior placed on me. I believe that. But even if I didn’t, this is something you should know, if only to avoid any trouble in the future.”

“Sounds complicated, but alright.”

“Malakhim grant divine blessings within their domain,” he explains. “Mine, however, is more of a curse. I’ve brought nothing but misfortune to those around me since the day I was born. To walk with me is to walk with the Reaper.”

“The Reaper, huh,” Rokurou repeats, chin in hand.

“Still insist on becoming my vessel? You might die choking on your breakfast tomorrow.” There’s a hint of a smirk in the malak’s tone, and it sparks something of a fire in Rokurou’s gut.

His lips twist, turning his smile wicked. “After hearing that? More than ever. Sounds fun.”

“Heh. You really are odd.”

“You ever heard of these things called mirrors?” Rokurou jokes, closing the distance between them. “Not that you’d recognize yourself, wearing that ugly getup. You can take that helmet off whenever you want.”

“From the sound of it, the only person that’d benefit would be you. I should leave it on just to spite you.” Nevertheless, pale fingers grasp the rounded edges of the dragon’s maw.

Rokurou is not a very imaginative person, and is at times horrendously shortsighted. Not a sliver of thought was put into what the malak might look like, despite how much he’d been dying to see. Speculation is for bookworms like Eleanor, and Rokurou can't think of a less exciting way to pass the time.

Down feather hair is what draws his eye first. Light catches in perfect highlights, rimming the man’s head in a halo of gold. Befitting an earth malak, the tips of each strand are toasted to a rich ochre, reminding Rokurou fondly of several caramelized desserts. He has to resist the urge to touch the hairs that rest against each pale cheek, to test if they’re as silky beneath his fingertips. Even the man’s face is delicate - still unmistakably the squared, rugged jawline of an adult, but the edges are smooth, lacking the harsh shadows one would think to match such a rough voice.

Piercing blue eyes, clear as the ice dusting Mount Killaraus, carve their home between dark, angular lashes. Their contrast against such light skin is far too eye-catching, holding the swordsman’s attention for several seconds too long. Rokurou forces himself to blink, forces himself to _breathe when had he stopped_ , and his eyes land on the malak’s mouth, curled into a smirk that _is definitely growing wider-_

Rokurou coughs, averts his gaze entirely, and the malak makes a noise of amusement. Voice no longer dampened behind cloth or helm, Rokurou can discern even the quietest rumble in the other’s timbre. The laughter is earnest, lacking any of the aggression or condescension of before. It’s a pleasant sound.

Forget Seres, what a shame to hide if every malak is as pretty as _this one_.

Regaining his composure, Rokurou manages to look the malak in the eye without being further starstruck. The slight upward tilt in his head makes him realize the spirit is just marginally taller. As gently as he can - which isn’t very - he raises his hand between them, palm up. The malak thankfully keeps any further teases to himself, and meets his hand with one of his own. The pads of his fingers are coarser than Rokurou expects. Longer, too, and the feel of nails brushing the sensitive patches along his healed hand nearly sends shivers down his spine.

“What’s your name?” Rokurou asks. It’s amazing how long it’s taken just to arrive at this question.

“Eizen,” the malak replies.

“Your true name.”

Eizen closes his eyes. “That isn’t anything that belongs here.” Rokurou hesitates, almost lets his hand drop, but halts when he feels Eizen’s fingers press into his palm. “Who I am under my true name is not who I can be under this pact. I don’t trust the Abbey, and I don’t trust their system. The Eizen that abides these rules is not the Eizen that freely sails the eleven seas.” Narrow eyebrows form a neutral line, and Eizen does his best to give Rokurou a reassuring look. “Give me a new name, is what I’m asking here.”

“Uhm, alright.” Rokurou nods. Taking a deep breath, he feels out their mana link, by this point frayed and overwhelmed from their prior power struggle. Gingerly, he feeds new mana into it, and begins the pact anew:

“O divine spirit, born of the earth, grant sanctitude to these vows we exchange. Let thy strength, in observance of this binding, be invigorated. May our resolve carve a path through this desolate land.”

Spell circles burst to life around them, sparking from the growing might of the incantation. It’s an inspiring light show to be sure, but it hardly does justice to the growing magnitude of the pact itself. Tethering a bound malak feels nothing like this. Eizen’s acceptance fills Rokurou with an otherworldly peace of mind, the raw connection of another soul bonding with his; it’s empowering, warming his chest with the malak’s incredible, unwavering certitude, an intensity that could never be mistaken for anyone else’s.

“Remember this true name I bestow unto you.”

Mana spills from their link. What once was a thread-sized connection is now a vast ocean, open and inviting. As the arte weaves the final verse of their contract, the air becomes heavy, as if the world itself is leaning in to hear Rokurou’s next words.

He meets Eizen’s eyes directly and says, _“Fahsvuw Wexub.”_

With a flash, the arte activates, and an impossibly bright light engulfs them. All the excess energy that had accumulated around them converges en masse, drowning Rokurou in an unending waterfall that takes his breath away.

This is a lot more power than he’d been expecting.

He yanks his hand to his chest, over his erratic heartbeat, and leans slightly over to keep his balance anchored. Eizen is physically nowhere to be found, but Rokurou knows exactly where he is, can sense his presence settling within his new vessel. It’s almost too much, what feels like an active volcano frothing inside him, but he bites his tongue stubbornly and focuses hard on breathing. With each exhale, he feels the tides recede, coiling into hibernation beneath his skin. After several minutes, the arte resolves, and Rokurou has a growing desire to lay down and take a five year nap.

“Wow,” is all he comes up with. “That was - _wow_.”

Eizen’s laughter echoes in his head, and Rokurou has a hard time quantifying how strange the sensation is. It registers first as part of his own thoughts, intuitively understood in a manner separate from sound. But there’s a layer of Otherness to it, too, like Eizen is also speaking directly into his ear, giving the voice an unavoidable presence in both physical and mental space. He’s never quite experienced anything like it.

“Alright, that’s gonna take some getting used to. Things they don’t tell you about in school, am I right?”

He feel-hears the other’s laughter again. Little phantom vibrations dance along the inner edges of his eyes, and he blinks rapidly to chase the sensation away. Is it normally so irritating?

 _This is actually my first time residing in a human vessel,_ Eizen admits. There’s a pause, and then Rokurou hears, _It’s surprisingly spacious._

“Huh?” Rokurou holds a hand against his head in wonder. “How small are you up here?”

_...it was a joke._

“Oh,” Rokurou says, “didn’t think you could make those.” Eizen makes a _tch_ sound, like he’s trying to cover embarrassment, and it’s such a turn from the defensive brute of before that Rokurou can't help but laugh.

Amber eyes roll to the tops of his lids, like if he tries really hard, he might see Eizen somewhere inside his skull. “It _is_ weird, though,” he remarks. “I can’t read your mind or anything, but I can feel your mana way more intensely. Don’t think I ever had anything like that with the other malakhim.”

 _This is how it’s supposed to feel,_ the response is somewhat bitter. _When the Abbey seals away a malak’s consciousness, it gives the exorcist complete control over the pact. You weren’t able to feel your malak’s intentions because they no longer possessed an ego to express. You lot are taught to use the power of the malakhim like we’re objects, without any regards to our free will. It’s disgusting._

“When you put it like that, it sure sounds like it.” Rokurou crosses his arms, eyes lingering on the shattered vase still littering the floor. Quietly, almost more for himself than for Eizen, he says, “I did mean what I said earlier.”

 _I know,_ Eizen replies. Rokurou can't tell if he means it or not.

A restless silence hangs, neither quite sure what to say next. They’ve found a bizarre sort of common ground, sure, but it's all circumstantial, and Rokurou's plan admittedly didn't go much further beyond ‘ _make the pact, try not to die’_. Not the best segue for small talk.

The problem rights itself as Rokurou is letting his mind drift, looking in the general direction of the window without real focus. In the crosshairs of his vision, he sees the translucent glimmer of mana, formed into a tightly bonded sheet. It kickstarts his brain into realizing he's looking at the wall of a barrier.

“Oh, that's right,” he says suddenly. As he turns sharply on his heel, Eizen makes a questioning noise. “Silve-”

Dizziness washes over him partway into the motion, and Rokurou quickly finds himself becoming reacquainted with the exquisitely detailed stonework of the floor. Disorientation makes his collision less elegant the second time around, catching the ground shoulder-first. Teeth gnash together painfully, and it’s just his luck it takes a bite of his cheek in the process. A pitiful moan escapes him.

Most of Eizen’s immediate response is swallowed by an intense migraine, the disjointed blend of sensations caused by Eizen’s internal voice suddenly too much to tolerate. His distress must have been obvious, for the next time the malak speaks, it’s from somewhere over his shoulder, isolated in physical space.

“Good grief,” he hears. For better or worse, Rokurou loses consciousness then, his equally tired _“No kidding”_ dissolving on the tip of his tongue.

____

Rokurou spends the next several days in bed with a fever.

When he wakes the first time, it's to Teresa hovering over him. The flat of her hand is against his cheek as she gauges his temperature, a bowl of steaming porridge resting on a tray by her hip. He almost doesn't recognize her. Not because she looks inherently different, just that concern is an emotion rarely on display to anyone whose name isn't Oscar Dragonia. Any smart comments from him will surely revert her back to her standard coldness, so Rokurou keeps his mouth shut and sticks to a standard greeting.

“You weren't back by the appointed time,” she explains. Rokurou thinks he can hear the _“I was worried”_ held in her throat, but that might be the fever talking. “You've been out for most of the afternoon.”

Sure enough, when Rokurou takes in the light of the room, the setting sun paints the walls in rich, honeyed hues that, combined with the floatiness of his senses, makes him feel like he’s only dreaming.

Leaned against the wall in the far corner, partly blocked from view by the armoire, is a mess of white and gold that must be Eizen, standing quietly with a book in hand. Blue eyes lift, as though sensing Rokurou’s stare, but only for a moment of contact before they’re digging back into the tome.

Teresa makes a clicking noise with her tongue and removes her hand, bringing Rokurou’s focus back to the side of the - bed, yes, it _is_ the bed he’s laid out on, overly massive posts supporting its overly massive canopy, swimming in piles of feather-fluffed pillows, with a headboard the size of most normal house’s walls. Teresa’s hand is soon replaced with a forceful spoon of porridge, and there’s not much more Rokurou can do beyond rolling to her whims as she suffocates anything he could say beneath icy motherisms.

By the time she leaves, Rokurou is warm and sleepy and doubly unsure whether any of this is actually happening. Teresa gives him strict orders of bedrest, and her promise to check back in the morning feels more like a warning than a reassurance.

“Come along,” he hears her command, drawing Rokurou’s curiosity just long enough for him to see a bob of silver hair move through the door frame, and then both Teresa and her little malak are gone.

The second time Rokurou wakes is a few hours later, to the torn-paper scratch of matches being struck. It's nearly dark now, drawing Rokurou to the newly lit oil lamp.

Eizen finishes lighting the final wick, and turns at his vessel's tired, “Hey”.

“How are you feeling?”

Rokurou winces, pawing along his brow carefully. “Well, I’ve definitely felt better.” His whole head is a furnace, burning the knuckles that shiver against his temple. “Don't think I've been this sick in years.” When he tries to grin, a sudden dizzy spell twists it into more of a grimace. “This your curse's way of saying hi?”

The blond tilts his head. “Something like that.” With a gentle clap, he sets down the book Rokurou didn’t realize he was holding. Has he been reading the whole day? “It's not uncommon for a living vessel to have a reaction to the bond of the malak. Your body's not used to so much foreign mana, needs time to adjust. Depending on your sensitivities, that can take its toll. You should be fine in a few days, if not sooner.”

“So, it's like, an allergy? I'm _allergic_ to you.”

“No, but if thinking that way helps you understand, you're not entirely wrong.”

“But the fact I'm reacting at all must be tied to your curse, right?”

Eizen shrugs. “Who can say.”

Rokurou splays out against the pillows, arms and legs stretched, trying in vain to find even a speck of comfort. Making his mouth form the words he wants is difficult, especially when thinking requires so much effort. Sentences pour out in an endless stream, without much care put into whether any of it makes any sense. “Fascinating. You sure know how to liven things up, don’tcha? Must be destiny.”

"What makes you say that?"

"That curse of yours. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted it. It's perfect, exactly what I'm looking for. Well, maybe not _exactly_ , but - if I can survive _you_ , I can survive anything, right?"

"You wouldn't be the first to make that assumption." The words carry a morbid sort of weight to them. If Rokurou were more lucid, maybe he'd feel bad about bringing it up.

"Yeah, well, I doubt any of the people before me were made of Rangetsu, either." Rokurou sinks back further into the nesting comfort of the blankets. "Can't wait to see what it brings."

The malak is looking at him with a pinch in his brow, like there’s salt under his nose. There's such a strong mix of sadness and nostalgia there that Rokurou wants to learn more, but he-

-wakes for the third time uncertain of when exactly he fell asleep between the last time and this one, but it’s morning now, and Eizen's hunched figure is barely visible behind the armoire. Soft snores occasionally reach the swordsman's ears.

He's asleep again soon after, but not before noting the set of glasses and bottles now adorning the nightstand.

Somewhere between the fourth and eighth rousing, not that anyone's counting, Rokurou maintains consciousness long enough to be considered awake. There’s gunk in his eyes and cotton in his throat, but somewhere in his body, he's certain _something_ feels better. The glassware still sits on the small square table beside him - water, some gross fruity-smelling liquid, and what looks to be a bottle of spirits.

Without a second thought, Rokurou makes a grab for the liquor. His movements are sluggish, but he manages to find a secure enough grip on the neck of the bottle. With his eyes as garbage as they are right now, he has to lift the glass nearly to his nose, squinting into the logo.

“Captain Malik's honey spiced rum,” he reads off the label.

“I asked that exorcist woman to bring it for you.” Eizen grumbles from the corner, yawning as he blinks away sleep. “I'm actually surprised she did. She seemed pretty taken aback that I'd spoken to her at all.”

“If you're talking about Teresa, what’s probably happened is she thinks I ordered you to say all that. Bet you ten gald I’m in for a very awkward conversation with her about being an alcoholic.” Rokurou turns the bottle around in his hands, appraising it further. There's a light coating of dust crusted around the glass from a long rest in some near-forgotten cellar, and a stamp of wax on the squat of the cylinder marking the bottle as single-barrel. Hardly the nicest drink, but still leagues better than the mouthwash he's downed ten rounds into a showdown at the bar. Barely even piss, let alone liquor. “Not that I'll ever turn down a good drink, but why _did_ you ask for this?”

“First off, only a fool would take that bet,” Eizen says, taking a minute to adjust the cuffs of his robes. They wink in sheens of gold as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Rokurou scoots higher against the headboard to make room. “Second: the alternative is a dose of sale'tomah. I'll let you decide which is more effective.”

Well, that would explain the less appealing goop in the glass.

Rokurou grimaces, memories of his early days in Lothringen resurfacing far too soon. No way is he drinking that nasty stuff again. He gives the juiced weed his best glare, sticking his tongue out for good measure. “Is this a trick question? Last I checked, booze only _tastes_ better than medicine.”

“If this were a normal fever, yes.” Blue eyes trace the rim of the bottle for a moment before darting away to examine some painting of a church near the door. It's obvious the malak has something else on his mind, but can't quite find the timing to voice it. “But like I explained earlier, if you even remember, your current illness is caused by our mana clashing. Conventional medicine won't work here. It's more practical to just find ways to help you sleep through it, instead.”

“Ah, I see. That makes sense.” Rokurou can’t lie, he enjoys the look on Eizen's face when he unveils one of his kodachi from seemingly out of nowhere. He makes a show of uncorking the bottle with it, twirling the blade in flourish before tossing the pellet aside. Treasure unlocked, he wastes no time in shooting several gulps of rum at once. The spiced liquor burns a warm trail down his throat, webbing out to tingle even the tips of his toes. Rokurou makes a loud gasp of satisfaction, licking sugar off his lips with a sigh.

Stirring his wrist in small circles, Rokurou watches the liquid gently slosh inside the bottle with lazy fascination. “Can't say getting wasted was on my agenda as a newly appointed legate, but you won’t see me complaining.”

“Rum also has its share of proven benefits,” Eizen interjects, voice taking on the sort of scholarly tone Rokurou hasn't heard since he was a kid, being tutored alongside Hector Dragonia on the merits of this law or that document. Three sentences into Eizen's lecture on longevity and blood thinning and bone minerals has Rokurou tuning out nearly everything that comes after.

He takes back what he said earlier. There’s no need to be jealous of Teresa's troublemaking bookworm anymore. He’s got his own right here at his bedside.

He lets the man go on, nodding and interjecting with minor curiosities so the droning may continue. Rokurou certainly won't retain any of it, but he's noticed that the malak's spirit has lightened some since starting his talk. Whatever was on his mind has taken a backseat for now - he's sure they'll get to that at some point - and he genuinely seems to enjoy sharing his wide breadth of weird trivia.

After five straight minutes of history, however, Rokurou's headache has had about all it can stand of Eizen's eccentricities.

There's a potted plant in the corner of the room, some tall-standing broadleaf thing with a grassy texture. While Eizen verbalizes a damn novel about grog and its relation to scurvy, Rokurou grabs the glass of water - he double checks to make sure it _is_ the one with the water - and hurls the contents in the direction of the pot. Maybe half the water actually makes it to the plant in any capacity. The rest paints an ugly pattern of puddles on the ground.

Eizen stops mid-word, making a face that's such a perfect blend of confusion and vexation that Rokurou has a feeling he'll be seeing a lot of it.

“Do I want to know?” Eizen asks, gesturing with his chin.

In moments, the empty glass is full once more, and Rokurou holds out the offering of rum in the politest way he can think to get the malak to stop talking.

“I said that we were partners,” he says, voice warmed by booze and the air of a lazy evening, “So come share the benefits of a good drink with me.”

There's only the slightest hesitation from Eizen before he accepts the glass. A drowsiness dogs the corners of his eyes in a way that mirrors Rokurou’s own exhaustion; maybe he's not the only one feeling under the weather.

“When you called me that,” Eizen says, staring into the layers of aged amber, “I didn't think you meant it quite so literally.”

“Pretty sure you can tell by now that I'm not the most creative guy.” Rokurou's gone from circles to figure eights with the bottle, watching the drink splash higher up the neck with the sort of chaotic magnetism a child has pouring boiling water down an anthill. “You asked me for a name, so I gave you one. At least it suits you, right?”

“That remains to be seen,” Eizen replies coolly, making idling motions with his own drink. “Does your name mean anything?” His tone implies he doesn't expect a meaningful answer.

“‘Son number six’, if you can believe it,” Rokurou snorts, “Guess literal naming runs in the family.”

Laughter bubbles out of Eizen's throat, softly at first, like falling raindrops, growing louder as the absurdity sets in. Rokurou watches him lean into his hand, holding back words, jokes, noises of amusement. Infectious as it is, little time passes before the legate is joining him, and the bed quivers to the rhythm of their voices. A budding warmth brings levity to his heart, not entirely to be blamed on the rum.

Joyfully, he raises his bottle. “Well, Partner,” he says, “Cheers to a long life? Strong blood? Bones? What all you said earlier?”

“Please don't call me that,” Eizen says between his fingers. Again, like he’s trying to hide embarrassment. “Just Eizen is fine.” Nevertheless, he has no trouble knocking drinks with the exorcist. It’s a humorous time to realize they have opposing dominant hands, causing their knuckles to collide unexpectedly, but neither seems bothered by it. “To good health,” he offers, “How about that?”

“Works for me.” And it does. Rokurou could drink to that. Hell, he could drink to most things. “Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

The two drink then, and then again, and then some more later, until the bottle is empty and Rokurou is forced back into bed. Until then, the air is filled with quiet smalltalk, the kind that doesn't serve much purpose beyond the sake of saying things. By the time Rokurou's eyes start to droop, he's come to the conclusion that not even drink can silence Eizen if the fruit of knowledge dangles in front of him. If anything, a few dips under the glass makes him _even chattier._ However temporary it is, Rokurou is now a verified expert on local birds, guild shipping taxes, open ocean fishing, and the entire life cycle and behavioral tics of several species of squirrel.

It’s only when he's rolling into the covers, swimming in seas of unwanted knowledge, that he realizes he didn't really learn all that much about Eizen himself, or what he's even here for. Maybe he was telling the truth, and all he's after is finding a quiet way to leave.

Bits of shuffling beyond the bed tells him Eizen has settled back in his corner, a new book in hand. Just in this room alone, he's probably read more than Rokurou has in the entire year he spent in Lothringen.

 _What a nerd_ , he thinks, somewhat mockingly as he drifts off.

He eats those words the following morning when, in what can only be an act of fate, Rokurou does indeed choke on his breakfast. Eizen’s laughter is not so entertaining, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Invoke Ground: A silly reference to Tales of the Abyss that I jokingly kept using as a placeholder, and then it stuck. so I guess the joke was on me.
>   * _Fahsvuw Wexub_ : based on eigwayne's ancient tongue decoder, found [here](https://eigwayne.tumblr.com/post/159131339234/an-alternate-deciphering-of-the-ancient-tongue). I've tweaked the spelling a teensy bit to look nicer in English. It translates to “Partner Eizen” because Rokurou is an uncreative mess.
>   * Captain Malik: a reference to Tales of Graces. ;D
>   * Kodachi: translates to “short sword”, the term for Rokurou’s dual blades.
>   * Hector Dragonia: a reference to Hector de Maris (spelling varies), another of Arthur’s knights, and Lancelot's half-brother.
> 

> 
> Sometimes Eizen and Roku are hard to write cause they’re actually pretty smart cookies. But they're also really, really stupid. It’s a precarious balance.


	4. Wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before a storm.

It’s cold. And heavy.

Eizen opens his eyes to blurry fields of blue, an endless expanse of bright lights circling high above. Like stars, they sparkle, and his outstretched hand does nothing to close the distance between them. Lethargically, it hangs, grasping at emptiness.

He opens his mouth, chokes. The air is frigid and made of water. Glacial, crisp. No salt. Bubbles burst between the cracks in his lips and through his nose, racing to the surface with a speed and fluidity that seems artificial against Eizen’s perception of time. If only everything could slow down for a second.

If his years on the sea have taught him anything, this is a dangerous train of thought. Eizen doesn't feel the full extent of the water’s freezing embrace, not in the same way a human might, but he recognizes the warning signs. Desperately, he makes to right himself, to swing his arms in wide circles and make for the surface. His body seizes painfully from the motion, numbness peppering his side. Grabbing at his torso, Eizen’s hand pulls away in a cloud of red. Just his luck.

Not that it makes much difference; Eizen’s always been a piss poor swimmer.

If Aifread could see him now, he would probably laugh. “You're lookin a right mess,” he'd say, sneaking a wink between the scar over his eye. “Now how'd you go and fall into trouble this time, First Mate?”

Up above, there's a flurry of activity as something makes a dive into the water. Light flickers with the disturbance, making his already tunneling vision even fuzzier.

 _How, indeed,_ he wonders, drifting further into the depths.

____

“So, what _do_ your kind eat?” Rokurou asks around a mouthful of buttered bread, topped with a layer of jam so thick Eizen suspects it may be more berry than bread.

Loegres is bright this early in the morning. White light reflecting off white stone, white walls, white plaster - a glowing canvas as far as the eye can see. Birdsongs echo across the courtyard as the sun crests the towering city walls, warming Eizen's cheek through the window.

By this point, both men have grown rather weary of the legate's gifted suite, in spite of its many luxuries. Repetition can make anything stale, he supposes. Still, it grants privacy where the great hall cannot, so they haven’t bothered taking their meals anywhere else. It's not quite the same as where he came from, what he's used to. Coexisting with the same people every day is much livelier aboard a two-masted brigantine, where there are about as many places to hide as there are jackasses looking to intrude upon them. He supposes this might hold true for the Abbey as well, but something tells him it's a far less chummy affair.

Currently, he’s seated at the small table wedged between the bed and the wall, directly in front of the window. As fate would have it, without an elegant vase taking up the center, there’s quite a bit more room now. One leg is perched over the other, arm resting above the knee. Across from him, Rokurou digs with gusto into a platter piled high with rolled pastries, cubed fruit, coddled eggs, and various other assortments of morning delights. Matching goblets of wine, the only breakfast Eizen himself is partaking in, cap off the unusual meal. Rokurou’s side of the table being the cluttered mess it is, the cups have inevitably come to rest on Eizen’s end, and it’s a tempting thought to keep both for himself.

Today marks the second day since Rokurou regained full mobility, no longer burdened by sudden bouts of illness. Little has changed in the daily routine, not that Eizen’s complaining. While his vessel slumbers, Eizen reads. Awake, he watches the legate train, taking care to study any subtle patterns or techniques. Each day measured by two meals, with a shared bottle of whatever suits their preference come nighttime. Their mutual appreciation for fine drink is the most unexpected surprise so far, but one Eizen surely welcomes. All of it feels unnaturally trivial, completely different from the chaotic life Eizen knows and thrives in. If not for the quiet reminder of the pact they've made, this mild warmth that dozes in the back of his conscience, almost as a second heartbeat, Eizen could almost believe this all to be an off-color dream.

Conversation always varies with them. Sometimes they speak with such fervor their words overlap, new thoughts springing forth before old ones even end. Other times, they sit in silence, content with the meditative peace of the villa. It would be foolish to confuse familiarity with safety, but it proves increasingly difficult to maintain the longer he stays. He doesn’t let himself linger on the budding fondness he’s grown for this well-meaning, if somewhat clueless human of his. Eizen's lived a long time, can count on one hand the number of souls that have made him feel so unguarded so fast. But there’s no telling how much could go wrong. And with a curse like his, something most definitely will _._

It's difficult to remember. How he got here, why he left the ship to begin with. How long it's been. It's stressful to dwell on. Chatting with this human is as calming as it is maddening. He has no choice but to stay, for now. For how long? He misses his home. He wants nothing more than to leave. Knowing the geas is there, virtually undetectable, is suffocating. When the legate pulled it out for him, to look at, to study, it'd been a numbing psychological experience. Seeing the red woven glyphs circle around him, from somewhere deep within his body, stirred an acute sense of wrongness in him. It didn't belong, yet here it's been, gnawing away at him like a hive of ants.

If Rokurou feels even a fraction of the tension Eizen does, he certainly hasn't shown it. Too enamored by his morning meal, perhaps. Deft hands make quick work of the eggs, perfect gold jewels garnished with pepper and a pinch of parsley. Even to Eizen, whose appetite rises purely for drink and rarely much else, the glossy sheen of the whites combined with the savory aroma is unfairly tantalizing.

“Strictly speaking, malakhim don’t need nourishment the same way you humans do. We live off the mana of the land, in a sense. If we do partake in human food, it's more out of pleasantry than necessity.” Eizen keeps his voice polite, with just enough disengagement. He could go on forever about the habits and cultures of malakhim, and truthfully he _has_ gone on for quite some time for several other topics, but he draws the line at personal information. Loose lips and all that.

Rokurou mulls over his words, licking a stray spot of strawberry preserve off the base of his thumb. “Fascinating,” he says in a tone that sure doesn’t sound it.

“Didn’t you say your brother has a malak? Wouldn't they have told you some of this?”

“Morgrim's a _cat_. Always figured she was just eating when I wasn't around.”

Rokurou makes a pointed nod over his shoulder, where a preposterously long sword is propped against the wall. Since recovery, Eizen hasn't seen a moment where the blade isn't within arm's reach. " _This blade is my life,"_ is all that was offered when asked, _"without it, I'm nothing."_ Even when it causes no end of inconveniences, bumping into chairs, doorways, even people, the man never leaves it behind.

“And it’s not like I see her all that often," Rokurou continues. "When I do, I only have time to pester her about training.”

“That's all that seems to interest you, isn’t it?” Really, Eizen doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Nearly all of their more lively conversations have involved combat to some capacity, swords in particular being the one topic where Rokurou’s knowledge might be a match for his own. Hell, the first thing he did when he realized he wouldn’t collapse was race out to the sparring grounds, wooden practice sword in hand, and spend a frankly absurd amount of time running drills, cycling kata, and harassing the royal knights for scrimmages. Eizen was convinced the man would wear himself down to the point of _actual_ illness.

“Of course!” In the same beat, Rokurou reaches over and downs half his wine in several audible gulps. As a point of contrast, Eizen takes care to sip his more appreciatively, taking in the delicate aroma. “Ichirou isn’t just _anyone_. Can’t strategize against him if I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“And his malak just hands that over?”

“Kinda, yeah. Ichirou treats all this like he’s doing me a favor. Just helping out his baby bro.” He lazes back in the chair, drink in hand. Fingers clench the stem of the wine, the only outward sign of annoyance.

It’s harmless at present, but there are seeds of malevolence sown in the other's aggression. Eizen’s seen these moments before, all in conversations centered around the elder Rangetsu. As much as Rokurou tries to project a center of calmness, there is a chilling, frenetic storm cloud rumbling underneath. Eizen has never been under the impression that exorcists were infallible, but seeing the proof laid out before him is no less noteworthy.

He can’t say he particularly cares much regarding the long-term consequences, either. Whether these seeds decide to bloom into something far uglier is ultimately none of his business, but while his hands are tied, it can’t hurt keeping an eye out.

“Is it with hatred that you wish to cut down your brother?”

The anger settles, as seamless as it arose. Rokurou's brows pinch. “Teresa asked me that once. No, I don’t hate him. At least, that’s not why I want to kill him. Ichirou can make me mad beyond words, but I think that’s true of a lot of siblings.” Eizen carefully chooses not to argue that actually, as a matter of fact, healthy sibling rivalries don't tend to involve fratricide.

Rokurou pops a cut of melon into his mouth, gathering thoughts while he chews. Absently, he inches the platter in Eizen’s direction. Normally he would decline, but a sudden urge of whimsy overtakes Eizen, and he plucks the nearest morsel from the pile without much trial. Some sugary fruit bread, plump and soft and drizzled in lemon icing. Something he’s sure his sister would enjoy much more than himself.

“The values of my family are, uh-” Rokurou hesitates. “They're - _different_ to Midgand’s. I’m told I'm not very good at explaining, but a lot of it centers around our sense of duty. My ancestor pledged his blade to our lord, in return for the support and guidance imparted to him in times of hardship. We Rangetsu believe it an honor to carry on that legacy, in whatever form our lord requires.”

Eizen's heard the name Rangetsu before, long before meeting the man across from him. In the shadows of the capital, rumors talk. Of a strange clan with strange blades and a strange fighting style. Not much is said about this gift of gratitude they supposedly herald, but when souls sorry enough to be targeted by a clan of assassins are lucky to even leave a body behind, he supposes _any_ talk surrounding the name is significant.

“And your lord requires that you kill each other.”

“Nah, he doesn’t have anything to do with it, not really.” Rokurou rubs the back of his neck as he deliberates. “My family upholds duty and honor above all else. If you can’t fulfill your role, there’s no place for you. We're a clan of many skills and trades, but the Rangetsu style, first and foremost, means killing your enemy. Our clan can only be headed by the best, so we fight, and we compete, which means inevitably, sometimes we kill, to claim our inheritance.”

Sounds less like family values and more like cannibalism. For a dark moment, Eizen wonders how much of Rokurou's life was actually built for him rather than from him, and worse, whether the swordsman is even aware of the difference. It's opened his eyes a bit more, though conversely, it's also raised more questions. Like how all this self-serving talk of lords and clans landed both siblings here, in the Abbey's army of altruism. Or how Rokurou expects Eizen to believe that the meager ties of their pact could possibly hold up to such fealty.

 _Fahsvuw Wexub._ Simple, but not thoughtless. It feels right, in the same way a lockpick feels in the grooves of a keyhole. Wholly unlike his real name, the one that truly makes Eizen who he is, yet it fits the same mold with startling perfection. For what little it might be worth, it's a sign the exorcist at least _wants_ to take their pact seriously. Not just any name would evoke that kind of overlap.

Is that enough for Eizen? If the order came from his lord, could he trust Rokurou not to turn on him?

If push came to shove, Eizen supposes he could always overpower Rokurou, drag him kicking and screaming from the capital on his own. Far riskier, messier, and likely to end in one or both of their deaths, but it’s a thought.

Rokurou makes an introspective sort of hum, and Eizen refocuses. “Course, all that loftiness aside, I happen to think fighting is just _fun_. Trading blows with opponents so strong one misstep could spell the end for either of us, where survival can't be guaranteed for even the victor - that's the sort of fight legends are born of. And _Ichirou_ \- a fight with him would be _legendary._ ” Passion fills his words, an unquenchable thirst to relive the dreams that swirl behind his eyes. His hands tremble, perhaps itching to grab at his blade.

Eizen snorts mid-bite. “Do me a favor and save the dying for after our pact. Dealing with your corpse sounds like a pain.”

“I'll be sure to leave a real mess for you, then.” As the laughter peters out, Rokurou cocks his head, eyeing him like he expects some sort of outrage. “Heh, that probably still sounds like nonsense, doesn’t it?” he says with a surprising amount of humility. “Teresa's said I sound like a madman.”

The blond has to stop himself from taking another bite of bread. Despite his initial reservations, it's pretty good. “I won't pretend that I fully grasp your perspective, but neither will I judge you for it.” With as much as Eizen has seen, done, lived, he'd be lying if he said he couldn't see a bit of himself reflected there. “Stubbornly clawing your way through insurmountable odds, an endless voyage pursuing greater and grander unknowns - I know a thing or two about foolish ambition.”

“Do you, now? I'd love to hear about it.”

“And sometime, you may.” Eizen shrugs dismissively, tone clipped. He tips more wine onto his tongue to avoid the other's obvious disappointment.

Even after his cup is drained, Eizen holds it a moment longer, just to make clear the thread of conversation is done. Hopefully, Rokurou won't take it too personally. Part of him almost wants the man to say something, if only so he can justify his coldness in words. Maybe he is being too protective, but at least it's a reaction he chose to have for himself. Too long he's spent not knowing the unfettered beauty of living, too recently has he finally found a place and a people who accept him, Reaper and all, and to have it ripped away from him in the most invasive manner - he never wants to be in a situation where he might lose that feeling again.

But it's not as though Rourou is asking the world of him. A few embellished recounts of shipwrecks and sea storms are hardly worth the confidentiality. Maybe he's just making excuses at this point. After all, the Eizen of before wouldn't care about hurting anyone's feelings.

The Eizen of now, well, he'd rather not dwell on it.

Rokurou turns his gaze toward the ceiling, silent. One thing he's learned about the swordsman in their short time together is how entirely he spills his heart with his words, always loudly and always in excess, like staring unblinkingly into the sun. In silence, he opaques, reflecting only the chill, tempered moonlight of a Rangetsu blade. Everything disappears behind a wall of indifference. Eizen would say he’d prefer the sunnier side of the man, as irritating as it can be, but really, Eizen's a fool to admit that, even to himself. It's far too early to be making assertions, as if he cares about the outcome. He doesn't. He _shouldn't._

After several minutes, Rokurou finally speaks, softly at first, like he meant it for himself, before recalling Eizen's presence. “I've fought against that bastard for over twelve years now. One thousand, six hundred, thirty-seven matches, all losses.”

“Is that your stubbornness keeping count?” Eizen asks, glad for the distraction.

Rokurou shoots a quick grin his way, but it's short-lived, and a little self-deprecating. “Won't deny I'm a pretty petty bastard, myself. That's a stubbornness built from twelve years of frustration and jealousy. They're part of who I am. But some days it's hard to remember that. Some days, it all just makes me want to explode.” 

Eizen feels it again, that shift in the air. Microscopic flecks of corruption spill from Rokurou's heart, from the fear and the doubt he doesn't want to accept. If this were the true daemon-birthing blight of malevolence, Eizen would be crippled in seconds, but like before, they are merely seeds. Enough to tighten the air and settle like dust in Eizen's lungs, but ultimately dormant.

Discomfort must have shown on his face, for one brief glance from Rokurou has the legate averting his gaze, ashamed. Taking a deep breath, he exhales shakily, and the air lightens some. “Sorry,” he says, “I'm told malevolence is like poison to you malakhim.”

Eizen coughs. “I'm surprised you know what malevolence is. It's not something humans are typically privy to.”

“Heh, you can blame Melchior for that one.” Rokurou shakes his head. “Old man is freaking ancient. Probably knows a lot of things he shouldn't.”

Yet more headaches to fret over. The more he learns, the less he’s liking this whole situation. “So then, is Melchior on your list of people to fight?”

Rokurou stares. “Ya know, I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose he will be eventually. Melchior’s a master of _artes_ , not swords. Can’t say that puts him high on my priority list.”

“Sounds to me like you're just being picky.”

“Yeah?”

“If Melchior's as cunning and masterful as you say he is, wouldn't beating him help you win against your brother?”

“Hmm, you have a point there,” Rokurou agrees, “I've had my sights set on Ichirou for as long as I can remember, and _he's_ had his eye on Artorius for almost as long. Didn't really leave room to consider Melchior. Honestly, all three of those guys would make for an incredible fight; they’re on a whole other _dimension_ of power.”

It’s difficult to take Rokurou’s words as anything more than hyperbolic. Humans are incredible creatures, Eizen is no stranger to their feats of inspiration, but at the day's end, they are still just humans. Dimensionally-limited, fragile beings, who live and die in the same breath. That's part of what makes them so incredible.

Voicing his skepticism only causes Rokurou to shake his head with complete seriousness. “Nah, it's _because_ they're human,” he argues, arm stretched heavenward, grasping at some faraway dream. “With enough willpower, humans can accomplish anything.” Abruptly, the fist clenches. “That’s why I’m going to beat him.”

Romantic words for an aspiring murderer. Eizen drums his fingers against polished wood. One fool invariably attracts another, and it wouldn't do to let himself be riled up by Rokurou's starry-eyed longings, no matter how enticing they sound.

“So then, wh-”

They're interrupted by a series of sharp knocks. Rokurou looks him in the eye, raises his chin in silent askance. In return, Eizen shrugs, nodding toward the door. Around a mouthful of grapes, Rokurou beckons to their guest. In walks Teresa Linares, looking pristine and beautiful as always. The skirts of her consul dress float with each click of her heels, giving her a regality more in line with a queen than a praetor.

Arms crossed, Teresa pointedly narrows her eyes at the sight of the wine, darting from cup to legate in silent judgment. Aloud, she says, “Lord Melchior requests your attendance once you are finished with-” She gestures toward the table, now composed primarily of pastry and alcohol, with an upward flourish of the hand.

Rokurou drains the last of his wine with a bubbly noise. “Breakfast,” he supplies helpfully. Teresa remains unamused. “Thanks for the heads up. We're pretty much done here, anyway. Right, partner?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Eizen says, scraping his chair back. Standing, he motions for Rokurou to do the same. “It's Eizen.”

“Mmhmm, whatever you say.” Grabbing a handful of danishes for the stroll, Rokurou slings that absurd greatsword over his shoulder and throws a wink in Eizen's direction, completely dismissing him.

“Idiot,” he grumbles under his breath, but makes to follow nevertheless.

From the entryway, Teresa eyes the pair with impatience, and some guarded other emotion that Eizen would venture to pin as curiosity. After witnessing how she’s chosen to treat her malakhim, Eizen can’t say he’s her biggest fan, not by a long shot, but it’s an interesting development to note.

She shuts the door behind them, the cutting click of the knob reminiscent of a guillotine.

____

To say Eizen’s not fond of Melchior would be an understatement.

There’s nothing inherently insulting or impressionable about the man - quite the opposite, really. Melchior is such a closed book, there’s almost nothing truly noteworthy to say about him. Despite his meager size, he holds himself gracefully, with a presence that speaks volumes. He is direct, but not unkind, with just enough warmth to naturally disarm. The way he expresses relief over Rokurou’s recovery, and praises his successful pact, is almost fatherly in some sense, not helped by the way Rokurou rocks back against his heels, like he’s got something to prove. Melchior gives the air that this is a regular occurrence, patiently enduring the youthful display before clapping a large, ageworn palm against the man’s shoulder, putting a stop to his constant fidgeting. The size of Rokurou’s smirk makes Eizen realize he’s being a brat on purpose.

As the two chat, Eizen keeps his arms tightly linked behind his back, defensive. One look at Melchior’s eyes, sharp, like shards of glass, is somehow more intimidating to Eizen than the hundreds of ocean storms he’s braved through combined. It’s something felt on a purely instinctive level, an aura of threat more ancient than human years could measure in one lifetime. Nothing less than what he expected from the cornerstone of the Abbey’s affairs.

Their services have been requested by the main branch of the Holy Midgand Church. High Priest Gideon has lamented of late the rise in powerful daemons along the Danann Highway, raising concerns regarding orders of medicine set for delivery.

“Your pact has been forged, but your mettle remains untested,” Melchior tells them, “See this as an opportunity to gauge your compatibility.”

Tomorrow, they - rather, _Rokurou_ \- will lead a small team of praetors on a mission of two parts. Phase one will ensure the transport's safety to Port Zekson. Phase two involves tracking down and nullifying the source of these abnormally fearsome daemons. Ideally, for exorcists of their caliber, the whole endeavor should take no more than a day, but they are to invest several days’ worth of preparation in the event of any _complications._

Melchior subtly leers in Eizen's direction at the mention of it. Arms still crossed behind his back, Eizen takes care not to acknowledge the attention, but he can’t help the clenching of his fists, nor the chill that runs up his spine as a thought, a memory, hits him.

_“My lord, this makes the third exorcist this month.” A woman's voice, one he's heard before, all the time as of late, always just out of sight. Nothing he can pair a face or a name with. Almost as an afterthought, the context of her words seeps through the haze clouding his thoughts: a litany of exorcists faring poorly against his curse. The most recent victim was a man named Aslan, caught by surprise in a pincer attack and nearly sent to an early grave. It'd been Eizen's third day tethered to him._

_“I see. Thank you for your report, Jozette. You are dismissed.”_

_“Sir.” Footsteps. The gentle click of a door being closed._

_Coldness incarnate shears right through the walls of his draconic helmet in the form of a glare that could spark avalanches._

_“A domain that brigs forth calamity,” Melchior muses, thick knobby fingers running through his beard. “To think I would find another within my lifetime. The Empyreans smile upon this day.”_

_Eizen surprises himself, surprises both of them, with the growl that rattles between clenched teeth, and the small, but no less pointed, set of stalagmites that burst from the floor. Where an average man might find this worrisome, Melchior's wide shoulders tremble exactly once, with calculated amusement. “What trouble you are, already. Truly, I should cut you loose now and save myself the hassle later.” Inspiration, if that is what they call madness these days, leers out from behind an ornate monocle. Back straightened, he looks up at Eizen with what can only be described as_ hunger. _“But what a waste that would be. Surely even an unfortunate wretch like you has its uses.”_

_There's nothing to be done as Melchior's artes wash over him, glowing an eerie red. Barely a curl of his fingers is all he can manage when a slope of lethargy engulfs him, gently pulling his awareness down, down, down._

_All that remains is an echo in his head, of that man's voice. “Take solace,” he says with conviction, with grandeur, absolving Eizen of his earthly vices, “that your contribution brings us one step closer to mankind's salvation.” The words are gluttonous, overripe fruit, leaking with hubris that festers in the pit of Eizen's stomach. Distantly, he feels blood bead in his palm from how fiercely his nails bite._

“Wow, you must really hate-” Rokurou's teasing voice cuts in abruptly, pausing only to arch over the open book in Eizen's hands, “-compound alterations in red saffron.”

Startled out of his angry reprieve, Eizen jumps, disturbing the pages atop his fingers. They roll, burying the saffron tables in a rush of paper, soon replaced by an immaculately penned index of sage crossbreeds. Eyebrows curve gently on Rokurou's face, a blurry mix of pity and concern, as Eizen curses and hurriedly reclaims his place.

Hand raised, Eizen massages the deep crease of his brow. A headache blooms behind his eyes from how long he’s been mulling over his distaste for Melchior. No wonder Rokurou was making a fuss, the scowl on his face must have been severe.

“Sorry.” He lets his palm drag down the bridge of his nose, rotates the tension out of his jaw. “Was thinking about something else.”

Several hours have passed since their mission briefing, and they've settled in one of the Abbey's makeshift libraries, a cramped little alcove on one of the lower floors of the villa. It's carefully hidden inside a converted storeroom, entrance tucked sneakily behind a bookcase. Eizen’s more than a little disappointed they're not in the castle's main archive, one of the largest, most diverse collections to be found in the entire kingdom, but he supposes it makes sense for a secret research division to at least attempt the whole secret part. Still, the thought of all those rare books and records, safely stored on perfectly crafted shelves, all arranged in accordance to masterfully drafted architecture, aesthetics and techniques predating even the Asgard era - it makes Eizen's mouth water. What he wouldn't give to spend a day, a year, a lifetime, in a place like that, where rogues like him could only ever dream of.

By comparison, the nook the two are in now almost feels like a dungeon. For as much as it is hidden, it clearly was not intended for this sort of purpose. The additions of bookshelves and even one set of tables and chairs makes the cramped space borderline claustrophobic. If Eizen concentrates, he can sense the faint draft seeping from the concealed entrance, but the primary ventilation comes from tiny hollowed notches up near the ceiling that drill all the way out to the western courtyard - which is to say there's barely enough fresh air to avoid suffocation. The walls are so thick, little to no natural light makes it through the openings to the room, not helped by the funnels of cobwebs spilling over their edges.

Candles and the like are a death wish here, but they've managed with the clever use of an arte glyph suspended overhead. Dust flutters in the stagnant air, lit delicately by the light of the spell, and undertones of mildew and aged paper permeate every breath. Eizen isn't particularly sensitive to dust or pollen, but even he cannot restrain the occasional sneeze. The first time it happened, Rokurou had laughed, dared to call it _cute_ , and Eizen had nearly thrown a book at his head.

Now, the infuriating man thumbs between pages in his own book, which Eizen notes he's not very far along in. “Did you wanna talk about it?” he asks, trying too hard to sound casual. Eyes, wide with curiosity, peek out from behind a thick fringe of hair, like a kid toeing the edge of a line they know not to cross.

Really, Eizen should shoot him down again. Or better yet, ignore him.

Maybe it's the head cold, or the stress, or the stifling proximity of the walls, that motivates him to respond. Maybe he’s just tired of feeling cornered, looking for danger in every little thing. Maybe there isn’t a reason, maybe Eizen’s just tired of needing reasons at all.

 _Too soft,_ he tells himself.

Aloud, he says, “Not yet.” He sees Rokurou’s lips part, but before they have a chance to say anything, Eizen speaks over them. “Look, I get that you’re just trying to help, and I’m not exactly being the nicest guy here, but try to see this from my perspective. The very foundation of the Abbey is built on the bodies of my people.” He doesn't need to call attention to the geas, the binding artes, the sacrificial use of malakhim, to make the point clear. “I’ll go along with their orders to further my own ends, but I refuse to let my guard down when I know so little about the situation.”

“I know that,” Rokurou replies, chin in his hand, book forgotten.

“I’m not sure you do,” Eizen pushes back. “Where there are secrets, there are ears to hear them. Who’s to say we aren’t being monitored this very moment?”

“No way, even Melchior’s not _that_ good.” Rokurou chuckles, but can’t quite cover the nervous hitch in his breath. “Besides, what would be the point in that? He deals with my brother every day, and he's a _way_ bigger pain than me! I’m sure he knows I unbound you, probably expected it when he handed you over to me, and it’s clearly not a problem.”

“That we know of,” Eizen says with a hint of bitterness.

Amber eyes narrow. “Believe me, if it were a problem, it'd be dealt with. Melchior doesn't just let anything lie. I get you want answers, but what use is there worrying when nothing’s happened yet?” Eizen can't quite place the root of Rokurou's defensiveness. There's no denying the old legate is hiding something - several things. Rokurou can't possibly believe there isn't more going on, can he?

“You do understand that once something _does_ , it will be too late?”

“And you don’t think I’d protect you from that?”

Eizen scoffs, a good cover for how taken aback he is by Rokurou’s directness. “To use your own words, I think you’d _try_. Don’t know how successful you’d be. I’ve barely known you a week.”

“If that’s how you feel, why are we even here?” There’s a bit of irritation there, the bite of a wounded pride. “Melchior hid the geas, but I’m willing to bet he planned in case someone did find it.” Rokurou reaches for his neglected book, dangles it by the section of pages he’s read, and waves it open-faced in front of Eizen. “Knowing him, he’s already removed all the juiciest stuff from here. Maybe we’re just wasting our time looking through this in the first place?”

Eizen has to bite his cheek to stop from screeching at Rokurou _that is not how you handle books_. Especially _one-of-a-kind_ , _handwritten research_ , which make up the majority of the records stored here. Unfortunately, there’s a time and place for those sorts of lectures, and the last thing this conversation needs is a distraction.

If anything, it needs to take a step back, look at the bigger picture. “All I’m asking for is patience,” he says, forcing his tone to be as even as possible. “I didn't say all those things to put doubt into what you’re trying to do. Maybe we won't find anything in these books, but at least that’s a starting point. I'm just trying to help you understand that I’m not about to jeopardize my safety for the sake of your curiosity, no matter how honest your word is.”

“Harsh,” Rokurou huffs, sounding more hurt than angry. Awkwardly, he rubs the back of his head, averting his gaze. With the fight taken out of him, all Eizen sees is a kicked dog, and damn, if it’s not effective in making him feel a little guilty. “But I get it. Sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eizen says. “But if I find out you _are_ trying to manipulate me, it’ll be a different story.” Unsubtly, Eizen cracks the knuckles of his left fist. There’s an audible gulp from across the table.

The legate practically wilts. “Uh, thanks. I think.”

Guess that may have been a bit too mean. Eizen winces. “How about this,” he suggests in a lighter tone, a gentleness honed from years spent with a young girl atop a cloud-dusted mountain peak. He pats the stacks of notes, books, and scrolls that cover half the table and several unused chairs. “Find something useful, and I’ll tell you about the time I spent three days in the belly of a rockgagong.”

“Deal,” the other says, so fast Eizen nearly misses it. Any offense or discomfort built up from before has been replaced with a blinding eagerness that makes something in Eizen’s chest hurt. The malak forces his face into a grimace to stamp out the heat pooling under his eyes.

This man is too much sometimes.

“Question,” Rokurou breaks the silence less than a minute later, “what even is a rockgagong?”

“Idiot.” Eizen barks out a laugh. “Get reading and find out.” Shaking his head, he returns to his own unfinished text, and tries to recall what use he thought a volume of herbs would have in, well, anything.

And so goes the remainder of the afternoon, poring over papers, interrupted only by the occasional need to stand and stretch. Many of the texts aren’t even properly bound, just stacks of loose papers, some sewn or taped at the spine, or clipped in bunches. There are dozens of ancient looking scrolls and weathered scripts, some in languages Eizen doesn’t even recognize. Those he sets to the side, in the hopes he might find notes with translations.

Though it goes without saying that they’re here for more than simple recreation, there is something intrinsically calming to Eizen in the act of reading. Book in hand, he can let the world fade, can almost imagine he's still aboard the _Van Eltia_ , shifting with the waves, his only concern being their next destination. Steadily, like raindrops, his memories from under the binding arte have been trickling back to him, often at the worst times it seems, and if they’re to be trusted, he’s already been away from the crew for several months. Ever since he first boarded that gorgeous ship - how long ago has it been? - he’s rarely spent time inland, much less _several months_. If the binding arte did him any favors, it graced him a free pass from disembarkment syndrome. Though, in its place, Eizen suffers a different sort of malady.

Sickness of the heart. A terminal longing for the open sea. Tempestuous waves that aren’t so much tamed as they are endured, stubbornly, by a crew full of rogues who take and take and give only when there’s more taking to be had. Outer eyes look upon them and their deeds and call them thieves, criminals, _pirates_.

Eizen prefers to call them comrades.

And the most dastardly, conniving, reckless shrew of them all, is the fearless Captain Aifread. That man may well be the ocean personified given how swiftly and effortlessly he plunges into the deadliest swells, only to jettison out the other side barely worse for wear, more than ready to brawl and drink and ante up again. Infected by a tenacity to rival cockroaches, it’s that endless drive stoking the fires of Aifread’s soul that carried the _Van Eltia_ all across the oceans, to parts unseen, lands untouched, entire continents away, where maps become myths and the world shrinks to only what the eye can see. A true fool among fools, that Aifread.

How many years has it been since Eizen met the man who changed the course of his life? Who taught Eizen to seize it by the fists and bend it to his own design? Eizen can’t imagine a life where the Aifread Pirates are without their captain. Not because they cannot exist without him, definitely not. The _Van Eltia_ is a well-oiled machine, and will sail as smoothly with or without the man that stole her fresh out of the scrap heap. But the thought of an Aifread without his crew, his friends, his first mate - that is an image Eizen refuses to indulge.

No matter what he has to endure, Eizen will return home. Where he belongs. Even if he has to go through the entire Abbey to do it.

Eizen cracks open another dusty cover. Just one more book. One more scroll. Maybe the next one will have what he needs.

This one, a massive, bloated thing filled with annotations and bookmarks, is written in a language unfamiliar to him. Possibly Meliodasian, judging by the aged lock on the cover. At one point it would have served nicely as security, but the face of the padlock has since been cracked, with a thick layer of rust coating the keyhole. Several translated passages show it to be an anthology of discoveries from the far continent, packed with detailed sketches Eizen recognizes from his own foray to the distant land. Much of the book delves into flora and fauna, and due to lack of interest on the translator’s part, Eizen winds up skimming or completely passing over several large chunks of text. Only weaponry, technology, and transportation are given any attention, and only for developments that involve the usage of artes. Aside from pocketing some of the bits on architecture as a personal interest, nothing of consequence jumps out at Eizen to study further. As each page is turned, the unread portions growing thinner and thinner, so too does Eizen’s optimism.

Even after all that earlier posturing, part of him wants to slam the book with enough force to leave marks in the leather, to hurl it against the wall to match reality to the frustration he feels. Knowing it will do him no good, he counts backwards from five in his head, taking deep, measured breaths. There’s not much left to go through. Once he reaches the end, he’ll take a break, for his sanity if nothing else.

A dozen or so pages out from the back, Eizen’s fingers clench around the edge. In the upper corner of the left-hand page, diagrammed with mathematical accuracy, is a crest: stylized lily petals that curl in threes from a single point. Beneath, in an equally pristine sketch that covers both pages, is a weapon, long in the front with a smooth curve on the end. The fleur-de-lis rests delicately near the back, just before the dip where the handle forms. Over half of the right-hand page - unfortunately, where most of the writing is - shows signs of heavy water damage. Paper is shriveled into crusty waves, the penmanship blotted beyond legibility. Scrawled messily along the margins is a single word, left by the translator, one that makes Eizen’s breath catch.

 _Siegfried?_ it reads.

Siegfried.

Siegfr-

_“Better watch yourself,” Aifread warns, teeth flashing against a smug grin. He brandishes the strange object with flair, spinning it about his fingers like he’s known it for years and not the single afternoon spent out in the woods. Bits of metal reflect the light at just the right angle to hurt Eizen’s eyes, and he’s sure the man is doing it on purpose. Aifread pockets the lump of metal in the holster at his waist, leans in Eizen’s direction. “Next time we fight, I’ll have an ace up my sleeve.”_

Eizen’s mouth goes dry. Wordlessly, he closes the cover over the familiar image, fingers numb. He stares hard into the embossed leather, mind racing. Memories spill out wildly, like champagne from a sabraged bottle.

 _“What do you mean he’s_ gone?"

_Benwick can only offer a roll of parchment, fear evident in his eyes. He knows exactly what mood the first mate is in when he takes that sort of tone._

_Eizen damn near rips the roll out of the poor lad’s hands, and makes a mental note to apologize once this all blows over. It’s a writ of challenge, a clear trap. Why had Aifread taken the bait? What had he hoped to accomplish?_

_Noting the location, Eizen adjusts the cuffs on his jacket and storms out of the cabin._

_“F-First Mate!”_

_“Stay here,” he commands in a chilling breath. “If neither of us are back by sunrise, leave without us. We’ll catch up later.”_

_He’s sprinting before his boot even touches the docks._

“You, uh - you doin' alright there, partner?” Rokurou’s voice filters in through the layers of fog. Eizen looks at him briefly, wearily, doesn’t even think to try correcting him on the name.

_“What sense does that make?” Eizen asks, a bit frantically, pushing the wind malak along by the shoulder. There’s not much time, he can hear the exorcists gaining on them. “What business does the Abbey have going after pirates?”_

_“Couldn’t tell ya!” the man, Zephyr - no, that's not right -_ Zaveid _\- shouts back in several gasping breaths, stumbling briefly on a set of roots. His arms pinwheel as he rights himself, and the pendulum held tightly in his grip swings wildly in the moonlight. “Was never told! Didn’t stick around long enough to find out!”_

_“Where is he now?!”_

_“Still free, last I saw!” Zaveid pumps his fist in the air as he runs, full of excitement, and awe, and blind, utter terror. A small gust blasts from his knuckles, stripping the leaves off an unfortunate set of branches. “Bastard runs as fast as he punches!”_

_“Damn right he does, he’s Captain Van Aifread!” Eizen boasts. Or, rather, he meant to. He only manages to get the first word or two out when malak-enhanced fire artes tear through the forest, aimed right for their backs._

“It’s nothing,” Eizen says, even as he’s burying his face in his hand.

____

“Good morning, Rokurou.” The bright green eyes of Eleanor Hume brim with concern, a stark contrast to the golden browns of the castle stables. Rokurou has to look down to maintain eye contact, the top of the woman’s head barely reaching his chin. Fiery red hair is pulled back into matching pigtails, bowed cutely with ribbons that accentuate her youthfulness. “Are you alright? You look tired.”

The mere mention of exhaustion triggers a yawn from him. Months of Eleanor's etiquette hounding comes to mind, and he barely remembers to cover his mouth as he opens it wide.

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his ear, “Had some trouble sleeping, is all.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.” She looks at him with remorse, eyes so wide with emotion Rokurou worries she might burst into tears. Of course, the redhead is made of far sterner stuff, he knows this better than most, but in the moment it’s so hard resisting the urge to spoil her. “Have you tried chamomile tea? Several recent studies have shown it's quite effective in facilitating sleep. Red chamomile is especially potent, but it's also a lot more difficult to get ahold of. There's a merchant I'm well acquainted with in Port Zekson! After our mission, I can see if she knows where we can buy some?”

It takes several moments for all of Eleanor’s words to properly sink in, several more to find the words to respond. “Thanks, Eleanor. I'd like that.” He smiles her way, heartwarmed when she returns it a hundredfold. Even as they continue to chat, catching up on the goings-on of the last week, he doesn't have it in him to admit that no amount of tea would have helped with last night.

His partner has been in - let's say a _mood_ , since the library. Even more quiet and standoffish than usual, spending long whiles staring apprehensively into space, and barely rising to any of Rokurou's jabs. He'd retired early from their nightly round of drinks, and it surprised Rokurou how sad he was to see him go. It’s not like he went far - technically speaking, he was now closer than ever inside his vessel - but there was now an emptiness in the room that didn't sit well on such a perfect evening for company. Indulging in the excitement of a new brandy, as he’s now learned, is not as fun when it’s all by himself.

And that's to say nothing of what happened after.

Rokurou had no idea malakhim could experience night terrors, if that is in fact what transpired - and if that is the case, it does make him curious what something like sleep even means to beings that don’t technically need it. In any case, Eizen's as tight-lipped about the what as he is about the why, but there isn't much else to explain how the legate was wrenched away from sleep, body seizing between gasps of pain as the malak ripped his way out. The mana link blazed furiously against his pulse, head thick with dizziness.

The sensation of Eizen leaving has always given Rokurou the impression of a weighted coat. Steady ease in, steady ease out. This was more of a thrashing animal, blind and confused and just trying to escape. It showed in his body language: hunched and turtled, breath rasping low growls. Anything Rokurou could have said was frozen behind the strangling hold Eizen had on their link, letting only the barest wheezes past his lips. Not being entirely lucid didn’t help matters. He couldn’t even try to push back like the last time this happened; he was stuck.

Thankfully, Eizen came to his senses shortly thereafter, releasing the bindings with a curt apology that didn't quite hide the alarm stretching at his mouth, paling his cheeks. Even after they both resettled awkwardly into bed, Rokurou could tell the malak was just as restless and perturbed as he was.

It’s like the last several days had been erased, and they’d gone back to being strangers. Which is a rather odd thought to entertain, because did they ever become more than strangers in the first place? Of course, he tries to reason. Rokurou doesn’t just share his drinks with _anyone_ , does he? Never. They’re partners, after all. 

_Some partner, can’t even trust me._

Rokurou berates himself for the thought. That’s too unfair, even for him. Just having Eizen believe any of the things he's said so far is a miracle in its own right. It’s too early to be throwing around words like _trust._ But at the same time, he's reached the end of his rope about what more he can do. Call him impatient, jealous, selfish, but he wants to bridge a connection to his malak, to have something powerful and inviting. Warm. Supportive.

 _Like what Ichirou has._ The implication alone makes Rokurou want to cut out his own tongue. But even if he did, that wouldn’t make the admission untrue. And thinking back to Melchior's tutelage, letting the feelings fester into denial and guilt and regret will only breed malevolence. Better to air it out, accept and advance. His partner would thank him for the effort, if he ever knew he had them.

A lesser exorcist would give up, would add their name to the long list of others who have tried and done the same. Eizen is, by self-admission no less, nothing but trouble, and he could do better for himself and his team to drop it and pick something more _useful_. It's the reasonable thing to do.

But Rokurou is stubborn. He's never met a malak like this one, never met a _person_ like this one, and there's so much he wants to crack open and figure out, so many little curiosities and offhand quirks he just wants to sink his teeth into. It's magnetic, this fixation he has, that only grows stronger the more he leans against Eizen's walls. He's going to break them. What lurks on the other side will be worth his while, he can feel it.

Off to the side a gate creaks. Rokurou turns to see Teresa swiftly approaching. “I’ve spoken with the driver,” she says. “He’ll be stationed just before the city walls, awaiting your command. Oscar will ensure the roadway is clear for our departure.” She pauses, spying the rope-bound bundles lined at their feet. “Are you _still_ packing?”

Rokurou reaches for a forgotten coil of rope. Fibers of hay kick up in his haste. “Nearly done,” he says, “just gotta secure the panniers, and we’re good to go.” For emphasis, he pats the neck of the horse tethered to the corral. It butts its head against his arm affectionately.

“It’s my fault,” Eleanor cuts in. “I was supposed to be helping, and I got distracted with other matters. I apologize.”

The older praetor huffs, and motions for Eleanor to step aside. The redhead does so without hesitation. “Do not take responsibility for this, Eleanor,” she says, hoisting up one of the panniers with barely a grunt of effort. Setting the massive bag on the sawbucks, she holds it against the horse’s side as Rokurou scrambles for the second pack. “Rokurou knows how to work and talk at the same time.”

“Please, you’re only making a fuss cause I’m keeping you away from your precious Oscar.” Rokurou hitches the second pannier, making sure the balance is centered before letting go. “Relax, Teresa. He’s a big boy now, he can handle a few minutes by himself.”

“Just tie down the load, Rangetsu.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eleanor smiles behind her hand, retreating briefly inside the storehouse to grab a second manty. “I think it’s really sweet, what you and Oscar have. Makes me wish I had a sibling to dote on like that.” Taking the bundle of canvas, she rolls it over the horse’s back, Rokurou and Teresa helping to tuck the fabric behind the cargo.

“Trust me, Eleanor, siblings are nothing but pains in the ass,” Rokurou says, moving in with the rope.

“I doubt any sibling of Eleanor’s would ever think so lowly of her. She is hardworking and respectful. You Rangetsu are just maddening.”

“Don’t worry. Someday I’ll kill the bastard, and then it’ll just be me.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“Honestly, Rokurou. How can you say things like that?”

“What can I say? Some siblings just don’t get along, Eleanor.” Rokurou shoots a grin back at the ladies as he tosses the rope laterally over the load. Leading it under the panniers, he drags it back along the top to weave a rudimentary diamond hitch. To be perfectly honest, he’s not entirely certain he’s doing it right. Out of the countless skills he’s accrued as part of his training, ropework was never one of them. Why learn fifty different knots when he could learn fifty different sword slashes? That’s just logic.

But Lothringen tried to be thorough in its teachings. Rokurou was surprised how much time was dedicated to outdoor survival, and in turn, how much travel the average exorcist was expected to commit to in a lifetime. Volunteers who braved the journey to the ancient tower came from all walks of life, with the one guaranteed overlap being a philanthropic obsession with the Abbey’s promise of justice. Some hailed from private academic facilities, others from rural farmlands, shipyards, isolated mountain villages. Most had barely spent more than a cautious afternoon out in the woods, no sharper than featherless baby birds in the face of nature. Without those long, grueling weeks of instruction, half the new recruits would sooner die from a cold than a daemon.

“Rokurou, you need to loop it around more,” Eleanor calls out, making circles with her fingers. “And pull it tight!”

“Oh. Like this?” Rokurou gives the rope an experimental tug. The hitch is looking less like a diamond and more like an unfortunate plate of pasta.

“No, the other way. Loop it towards you - no, _against_ the tie. Here, let me see it.”

Marching over, Eleanor takes the rope from Rokurou’s hapless grip. Untangling his mess, she reloops the trail neatly against the bottommost band and gives a sharp pull. There’s a snap from the fibers as the ropes are pulled snug, and the center knotwork falls seamlessly into a perfect diamond that spans the width of the topload. She gives the hitch a few shakes to test for stability. Seemingly satisfied, she ties off a latigo knot at the top of the diamond, daisy-chaining the excess to tuck somewhere between the supports. It all happens so quickly, so cleanly, if Rokurou weren’t watching he’d swear he’d just witnessed true witchcraft.

“You’re a lifesaver, Eleanor,” he says with a laugh. “I’m the sorta guy who’d much rather cut knots than tie ‘em.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Eleanor sounds irritated, but her smile betrays her.

From there it’s a short matter in gathering the other horses together. Rokurou’s team is small, but highly elite. Definitely among the best praetors of the newer recruits, possibly out of the entire Abbey. It almost feels like too much for a simple escort mission, but Rokurou knows better than to assume things will go so smoothly.

 _Not to mention there’s a pouty Reaper inside my head_ , he thinks, perhaps a bit poutily himself.

The three walk the horses through town, Teresa and Eleanor leading the way with Rokurou keeping a firm grip on the reins. Denizens, merchants, and soldiers alike take care to part as they approach, clearing a pathway for the exorcists. Faces full of life, of smiles, of hope, pass by in an endless stream. There’s an occasional holler or cheer, many gasps and pointing fingers from passing children, and the trio do their best to return the attention with a nod or a wave. It’s a tad uncomfortable receiving so many pairs of eyes. A lot of people easing their burdens on their shoulders. A lot of people they could let down.

He’s never had others rely on him like this before. Smaller matters, sure, but big things? No; it’s always Ichirou, or his lord, or Melchior that people turn to for aid. Never him, never Rokurou. A stab of contentment pools in his chest as it dawns on him that entire groups of people, entire towns for that matter, are counting on _his_ team, _his_ strength. He can’t help it. It feels nice. Feels like something he could get used to.

Their arrival at the gates is met with far less fanfare. Here the roadway is cramped, with wagons of all sizes trying to maneuver in and out of the arched doorway. Travelers, merchants, mail carriers, and other folk on business fumble through their wares for coin or permit, sparing no time for even a glance at the passing exorcists. One cart in particular is parked along the massive city wall, draped with a thick canvas emblazoned with the crest of Midgand’s cathedral. Through the open curtains at the back can be seen the cornered edges of wooden crates, no doubt filled to the brim with medicine and herbs.

Teresa makes a beeline for a man speaking with the guards attending the gate. A soft-spoken young exorcist with a striking resemblance to the approaching praetor, with fair skin, fairer hair, and vibrant blue eyes. They sparkle when they catch sight of Teresa, a smile opening up to a handsome face.

“Si - erm, Teresa. There you are.” Oscar Dragonia has all the markings of a top ranked exorcist, but deep down, he’s still a young man, barely on the cusp of adulthood. He coughs behind his hand, embarrassed by the slipup. “Your timing could not have been better.”

Stepping aside, Oscar uses his arm to guide Teresa's eye to the guard on the left. They salute the praetor in a full-bodied gesture, armor rattling with a loose, tinny sound. A woman's voice echoes from within.

"Lady Teresa," the knight says, "One of our returning border patrols reported large sightings of daemons to the southwest of Port Zekson."

Teresa nods. "You have my gratitude for the warning. Rest assured, the Abbey will spare no expense in eliminating the source of the aberrations.”

"Thank you, my lady."

The two exchange more information, with occasional embellishments from Oscar, but as their discussion drifts away from the whereabouts of the daemons, so too does Rokurou. Having gathered all the intelligence pertinent to his own goals, he instead diverts his attention to picking out the wagon driver. He's a plain looking older man, with salt and pepper hair and a wiry figure, buried beneath a heavy travel cloak. Deep lines along his face give him the impression of a constant grimace, even when he turns toward the legate with a weary smile. His most noteworthy feature is a hooked web of scar tissue caressing his jawline, a morbid reminder that even untrained priests must find ways to live alongside daemons.

Rokurou pulls Eleanor with him and spends the next several minutes going over each stage of their mission. The driver, whose name Rokurou catches at first but doesn't take care to remember beyond their conversation, heaves a tremendous sigh of relief, shoulders sagging as he finally releases all the fear and worry that has no doubt been plaguing him for weeks.

"Thank you, oh, thank you," he chants, shaking their hands repeatedly. "Those gods-be-damned daemons have assaulted no less than five of my deliveries. They've ransacked all of the medicine and destroyed whatever they could. Defiled beasts, all of them." There are tears in his eyes when he finally releases his grasp. "How can we ever repay Lord Melchior for his generosity? May Innominat bless you for your work today."

"Don't thank us when we haven't done anything yet," Rokurou replies, clapping the man on the shoulder. His entire frame wobbles from the impact. "Save your tears for Port Zekson."

“Do not worry,” Eleanor pipes in, “you have my word on behalf of the Abbey that we will see you and your cargo to the port safely.”

The man continues to sputter, wringing his hands into a vermilion scarf he uses to dot the corners of his eyes. As Eleanor offers words of comfort, even an additional handkerchief from her own pocket, Rokurou surveys the area one last time, sweeping across the town until he’s staring out the gate, at some faraway mountain looming on the horizon. If the reports hold true, the breakoff point won’t be until after they cross the bridge, well over halfway to port. That’s still close to the wetlands. If they’re lucky, they’ll avoid any sudden storms, but knowing who he’s made a pact with, Rokurou won’t count on it.

“You ready?” he asks beneath his breath.

Eizen takes a long time to respond. _Your call._

The legate clicks his teeth together, unsure why he expected a different answer. He takes in the matching gazes of the Dragonia siblings, the quiet determination in Eleanor’s frown. As ready as they’ll ever be, he supposes.

“Alright.” Then, louder, “Let’s move out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA how many Tales references can I cram into one fic:
> 
>   * Jozette and Aslan: two minor NPCs in Tales of the Abyss
>   * Rockgagong: a briefly plot-relevant monster and optional boss in Tales of Graces
>   * Zephyr: a prominent character (and my actual son) in Tales of Link.
> 

> 
> The intention was to fit more of the actual mission in this chapter, but boy, that sure didn’t happen, oops.


	5. Groundswell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of a mission not going quite as planned, Rokurou and Eizen finally lay some tension to rest.

Rokurou curses as he slicks his hair back, clearing his vision for a few precious moments before a new sheet of rain dampens his view. Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the wetlands in harsh purples and whites. Distantly, the bright red of Eleanor's pigtails blink in and out of focus as she races to an open space, chanting incantations before she even stops moving. Keeping a firm grip on his short swords in spite of the downpour, Rokurou sprints through the mud to keep anything from harming the praetor while she casts.

As expected, the carrier was ambushed to the south of port, just shy of the bridge. A large number of daemons bore down on the transport, brandishing swords and clubs and claws like they were the last meal on earth. There was a lot of skittering about, aggressive baits and switches, choruses of howling. A lot of bark, with little bite. It became clear these were just the small fry, completely outclassed by his team.

Between Oscar's pristine swordsmanship and Teresa's deadly artes, molded meticulously by the hands of Artorius and Melchior, the first wave melted beneath their ferocity. It was laughable how their momentum crumbled, the ambush quickly backpedaling into a retreat; Rokurou had been itching for any excuse to stretch his legs, but he'd honestly expected a much grander prelude. Off to the east the stragglers fled, where the lake road met the highway in a quiltwork of sinkholes, ponds, and rare patches of dry land.

Rokurou and Eleanor broke off from the group then, eager to complete their mission. They were patient with the pursuit, directing the horses at a cautious distance. The steeds are of well-bred stock, specially trained to charge down even the might of daemons without fear, but today they were chosen for mobility more than combat.

Occasionally, one or two of the feistier daemons would round back and try to stand its ground, but a few well-timed artes pruned what little courage had grown. As the beasts crossed further into the lakelands, they eased off the trail even more, before coming to an outright halt. Eleanor sent out a malak to scout while they made ready to continue the chase on foot. A base camp needed to be set up regardless, and it'd be too dangerous to lead the horses through the suctioning lanes of mud, which grew thinner and thinner with every step.

Having malakhim to spare, Eleanor erected a rudimentary barrier over their makeshift camp, and stationed one to stand guard. They chose a relatively isolated clearing at a decent elevation above the wetlands. A massive rock face loomed across one side, more than able to cover their backs. Pockets of brambles offered moderate camouflage elsewhere, but they left something to be desired. For what they needed, though, it would do. The barrier may not even be necessary, but Eleanor had insisted, so who was Rokurou to say no?

Turns out it was good foresight, for as soon as their tracks came upon the daemons' nest - a festering island of tainted soil spilling over with daemon ilk - the heavens split open, and a flood oozed onto the earth. The already saturated pathways became a unified table of water, sinking Rokurou well past his toes in a matter of minutes.

Compared to the meager handful of daemons that attacked the carrier, the numbers prowling the nest are far more harrowing. When they attack, it’s not with any particularly coordinated effort, but sheer breadth of numbers lends its own kind of power, marked by a cloud of malevolence thick enough to make Rokurou's eyes water. The nest is perhaps one or two venomizations away from becoming a Class 4 Zone, so it's good they're clearing it out now while the daemons are still weak. They’re far enough from settlements for most humans to avoid, but the church's plights alone tell how much harm they could bring if allowed to grow unchecked.

Catching a pixie by its wing, Rokurou slashes in two downward strokes, severing tendons and causing the daemon to list in a spiral. Pixies are notorious for rapid spellwork, so eliminating them is among their first priority. The flighty pest lands harshly in the mud. Another calculated strike silences it permanently.

Hair prickles on the back of his neck, anticipation for the chime of Eleanor's spell. The air turns acrid on his tongue as blades of wind criss-cross the battlefield, tearing through fur and sending smaller fiends flying.

A second chime, and this time a ghastly chill cakes in his lungs. A star of pure ice explodes next to him, catching several massive werewolves in one burst. Rokurou has to step away to avoid the expanding frost, snapping off a particularly aggressive icicle with his sword when it creaks in close to him. A bit _too_ close. Much like how the last several spells have been _too close_.

"Hey!" he hollers. "You _are_ marking me, aren't you?"

If Eizen hears him over the roaring winds, Rokurou can't tell. All he can see through the haze is the vivid green glow of a new spell. Eleanor is much the same, as are her other malakhim: a collection of shimmering little beacons that just as readily attract the stares of hungry daemons as they do worried allies.

Not that the legate is much safer out in front, even less so if a certain someone on his team of casters hasn't properly marked him. Eizen needs to be more like Eleanor, whose spells harmlessly weave around him, even when he stands at the heart of the blast. Eleanor could fling fireballs at him all day without causing so much as a singed hair, so strong is Rokurou's faith in her. Not like this.

What an embarrassment it'd be to die from friendly fire, of all things. From his _own malak_ , no less. Eizen should have little trouble isolating his mana signature. Not only are they linked through their pact, they’d specifically practiced this just the other day!

 _"We should probably stick to distance support,"_ Rokurou had suggested after watching Eizen stumble over his own two feet for what must have been the dozenth time. The lopsided grin sewn into the training dummy made a mockery of Eizen’s poor form, going sorely un-punched during the time they’d been out on the practice grounds. _“At least, until we can get you some better clothes.”_

For whatever reason divined by the cosmos, Eizen's Abbey uniform was suddenly causing all manner of clumsiness from the man. From tripping, to catching on branches, to cutting circulation, and beyond. Whatever impracticality Rokurou could envision, he witnessed at some point that day. He has a theory of what might be the cause, and a sneaking suspicion Eizen is more than aware of it himself, but he’d rather not bring it up unless the right opportunity strikes. For now, it’d been agreed by both of them that close-quarter combat was off the table until they could sort this out. 

The swordsman brings a thumb up to his right nostril and blows out flecks of ice from his left. He’s starting to rethink their decision now.

_Reaper's Curse, indeed._

The legate channels mana into his arm, lets it charge up as he rushes down a small group of wolves. He swings up in a big arc, and the energy cracks through the tip of his blade in a web of lightning. As the beasts sizzle and smoke, he dives in even closer to tear through their bodies, earning no small amount of satisfaction as their bellies blossom beneath his blades.

Rokurou's not much of a mage; didn't have much aptitude to begin with, and what little he did learn pales in comparison to his martial talents. Mobility and precision is what he was always taught. Can't exactly do either if he's stuck in one spot.

A glow to the side is his only warning of a charging gibbon, an enormous bipedal mass of fur and sharp edges, with eyes that burn red. He parries its claws and dodges in a tight circle, turning the momentum into a counterstrike. Malak artes may be ill-suited to his interests, but Rangetsu are masters of their body. His counter strikes the ground, birthing shockwaves that erupt out of the mud. The ferosome primate is somersaulted into the air, but Rokurou pays it no mind, already distracted by another pair of gibbons coming upon him. He weaves between their slashes as well, countering blow for blow with a striking amount of grace. The field is utter chaos, with spells firing off every other second in every direction, his vision swimming with enemies and explosions, and Rokurou could not feel more at home. He ducks beneath an arm, slashes back with his blades, and basks in the familiarity of combat.

There’s another close call from Eizen, a spell where several uneven spears of earth erupt from the ground. Mud kicks up as the crowds of daemons are pierced and buffeted, Rokurou included. He manages to catch his footing even as the rock beneath him sways, and pushes himself away from the blow with only a bit of slip on the landing.

Holding his swords defensively, he retreats several paces back to regroup. A quick headcount tells him there are only five opponents left. The pair of gibbons he’d been dancing around earlier, and the three werewolves still caught in Eizen's photon spell, which has finally begun to wane. Ice shrinks at a smooth, artificial rate, reflective of its unnatural formation. The formula unwinds in cycles, regressing the frozen explosion into a sphere no bigger than Rokurou’s fist, before fading away entirely. Shaking any remains of crystal from their backs, the daemons are stunned only for a few moments before they’re searching for something new to target.

Rokurou chews at the corner of his lip, testing for numbness. Strands of hair stick in a tangled array all over his face, and his shoulders shake with labored breath. Calmly, he flips the kodachi over, and sheathes them behind his obi.

If they want a target, he’ll give them one.

Straightening his back, Rokurou folds his arms, and waits. The daemons take notice of his stance, and wrongfully believe he has given them an opening. All five rush at him, and he can’t help but grin at their eagerness. There are some pretty smart daemons out there - daemons that could give him a run for his money - and then there are these ones, driven loosely by whatever threads of reason linger in their animal minds, more acutely governed by instinct than intellect. Those who had been coordinating strikes on the medicine carriers had retained a bit more of their castoff humanity, but even they amounted to no more than common thugs, superhuman strength notwithstanding.

He grasps the hilt of his ōdachi. With a sword so massive, he has to lean very particularly to pull the blade in a single arc.

The strike is clean, swift, the weight of the sword cleaving a diagonal even through the rain. The gibbons and one of the werewolves catch the full front of the blow, the ōdachi swimming through them like tissue paper. Severed torsos and arms, their exposed inner flesh half cauterized from the blaze of his mana, tumble down in a series of wet squelches. One of the arms, claws extended to rip into his throat, misses its mark and slaps limply against his chest, landing atop Rokurou's boot as a testament to its final effort. Spatters of blood stain the whites of his robes, blending into muddy grays and browns. 

The surviving werewolves are hunched and quivering, eager to find someplace safer to lick their wounds. With flattened ears, they cough out a few watery barks before turning on their haunches. The mission stated the full extermination of the nest, so naturally, the survivors don't make it far. Four separate spells converge on them, a merciless assault of wind-sharpened blades, javelins of lightning, white hot flames, and maws of earth that shear their remains. By the end of the sequence, what's left of the monsters are scraps only the vultures would find appeasing.

Immediately, the domain of malevolence departs, lifting like a veil into the heavens. The skies clear, enough for small pockets of light to bleed through the cloud cover, and the downpour lessens to that of a light drizzle.

It's a trial for Rokurou to lift the ōdachi out of the steaming indent it's made in the mud. Both hands are needed to wrestle the thing loose, moreso to pull the damned thing up, but he manages to wipe down the blade and return it to its sheathe in a single fluid motion. _Ichirou could have done it with one hand,_ he can’t help but think. In his mind, he tries to justify it - not only is the sword exponentially heavier than the average weapon, but the wear of battle has started to catch up with him. A normal human would never be able to pull the sword against the forces of friction _and_ gravity, it’d be too much to balance. But Rokurou isn’t just any human, he’s a Rangetsu - and Ichirou isn’t just _any Rangetsu._ It’s a vicious cycle.

Rokurou shakes his head, frustrated, sending an entire lake of water flying. He'll be happier once they return to port, where he can drown the anger with drink and rowdier company. No time to brood now, not when they still have a job to do.

From some distance away, he hears Eleanor heave a sigh of relief. There’s a brief struggle as she fights to free her boot from where it, too, is caught in the sludge ( _Not even a sword, that’s her_ own foot _,_ his mind supplies, rather unhelpful by this point), but she eventually manages to right herself. Recalling her malakhim, she starts to make her way over, careful of her steps.

Eizen has a much easier time by comparison, letting himself be drawn by the natural pull of his vessel. Rokurou barely has time to even realize what he’s done before the malak is rematerializing beside him. Without, he is quick to note, any sign of water or grime on his person. Malak vessels naturally filter out any foreign mana to prevent corruption, allowing only material perceived as part of the malak to dwell within. Who could have guessed it worked on things like wet laundry?

“You cheating bastard,” he says, wringing out the edges of his sleeve. “Who said you could use me as your bath towel?”

Eizen crosses his arms, what seems to be a trademark pose of his, and hooks his mouth into a smirk. The prick’s hair doesn’t even have the courtesy to look damp. “You did, when you offered to make a pact with me.”

“Not even, this is a clear exploit of our agreement." He shakes droplets of water in the blond's direction. “So unfair.”

To his credit, Eizen doesn’t seem at all annoyed by the display. “If you’re so concerned about fairness, don’t go making friends with a Reaper.”

If not for how cold Rokurou was, he wouldn't have noticed the small coil of heat tightening his chest at the words. _Friends_ , huh? A joke, to be sure. They get along, but they're not exactly close. If anything, they’ve drifted further apart since the other day. Rokurou doubts they’re even acquaintances at this point.

Still, he can’t help but get caught on the concept. Friends _._ He never really had those growing up. Was always too preoccupied to approach strangers, too focused on growing stronger to approach his fellow students. Defeat was a bitter enough medicine to deter any of them from approaching him, either. The most Rokurou’s ever seen in friendship has been here at the Abbey, or in the scant books he’s read. He jokes often about killing Ichirou, but the other exorcists think nothing of it, don’t realize how serious he actually is. Perhaps Teresa might know better, but maybe she doubts he’ll ever truly commit the deed, keeping her concerns minimal. Or perhaps she simply does not care, for even if at one point they lived beneath the same roof, they are not family; his shoes are no match for Oscar’s.

If he ever does accomplish his goal, he wonders how quickly they’ll point in his direction. Will they call him monster, cast their spells upon him in judgment? Stories always paint friendship to be a powerful, everlasting bond. Is that even possible when the people he calls his companions don’t even understand him?

"Do you know what those daemons were guarding?" Eleanor asks, finally stumbling within earshot, and Rokurou eagerly pockets the thought away. The young praetor has been busy squeezing the rain out of her hair, and it takes more willpower than it should to keep from teasing the way her pigtails droop like shrivelled dog ears.

Then her words catch up to him, and he stares owlishly at her. "Guarding?"

Eleanor - and Eizen, too, for that matter - gestures behind him, and he turns to see piles of crates and broken carriers packed along the perimeter of the nest. It's a sizable haul, one he'd wager might fill at least half of Zekson's portside storehouse, which is no small feat.

"Wow, how'd I miss that?" he wonders, moving in for a closer look. "Too busy fighting, I guess."

"You can't be serious," Eleanor says.

At the same time, Eizen says, "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

There's an awkward moment where they make eye contact, Eleanor with poorly hidden surprise, Eizen with poorly hidden irritation. Rokurou pays them no mind, finding much greater fun in rummaging through an open crate.

"Looks like it's mostly medicine," he says, head ducked completely inside with room to spare. "Probably all from that church guy's deliveries."

"Does any of it look salvageable?" Eleanor asks. "There's so much here it might be worth the resources to come back for."

Rokurou shrugs. "I mean, judging from this box alone, I'd say most of it is fine. The church lucked out on this one." Reaching in, the legate scoops out the topmost bottle, made of thick glass that was either extremely resilient or treated with unnatural care by the late thieves. The cathedral's seal has started to wrinkle at the edge from waterlog, but overall it's in good shape. The medicine at the very least is still wholly usable. "Why ya think these daemons were out here hoarding cough syrup?"

"It's probably not cough syrup," Eleanor surmises, and she's probably right, but all the same she doesn't offer an alternative. "That said - I don't really have any ideas myself. Daemons exist to bring chaos. Perhaps that in itself is the reason?"

Something feels incomplete about that answer. From the flippant way it was proposed, it's evident Eleanor, too, doubts that what happened here was really so simple. Rokurou can see the detective gears turning in her head, already resolved to uncover the truth, but he can't express how little he cares to join in.

"Well, regardless of the answer, we did what we came to do," he says, "Mission accomplished! And it's still daylight, too! If we hurry, we can make it back to port and get someone to reclaim all this stuff tomorrow."

Eleanor murmurs her agreement, but she's still holding her chin, deep in thought. Rokurou makes a note to remind her later that they have other things that are more important than investigating whatever was being done with the stolen cargo. For all they know, the daemons could have been former doctors, ailing patients, or common thugs clinging to the last, most impassioned desires within their faded minds. Medicine, particularly the more potent stuff, has always been difficult to come by, even recently with all the added funding from the royal coffers. It's not a stretch to think that what happened here was merely an unmitigated act of desperation or greed.

But he lets Eleanor have her fun for now. While she pokes her head around, Rokurou wanders over to his moody malak.

"Ready to head out, partner?"

Eizen makes a face at the name, but says nothing. Instead, he takes two steps forward, and waves his hand briefly, fingers aglow with tiny spell rings. A comforting heat pools in his side. Rokurou looks down. Practically indiscernible from the mud stuck to his clothes, there's a damp patch of blood.

"Huh," he remarks.

"Your movements were favoring the right," Eizen explains, all bluntness. "You need to be more aware of your health."

"Didn't even feel it." It goes without saying his lack of awareness more likely came from the numbness of the rain and the shield of adrenaline, not the mildness of the injury. He combs a hand through his hair, feeling humbled. "Sorry. And thank you."

The malak makes a face at that, too. Almost a grimace. Not what Rokurou expected. Did he do something wrong again?

He wants to say - well, he’s not really sure what. Something, anything. But before he has the opportunity to even open his mouth, Eleanor is calling out behind him, and he turns to the sight of her bringing up the butt of her spear against a rampaging gibbon.

“Behind!” he hears from Eizen, and then he’s all instinct, leaping to the side with a twist in his step to find whatever it is that’s gotten the jump on them. There's a churning of guilt in his stomach, for being careless, for letting his eyes dampen his ears.

 _"Never let your guard down, even when victorious,”_ Artorius used to tell him like clockwork, usually with Rokurou beaten down on his knees, swords knocked aside. Training with Artorius was always an exercise in humility, philosophy. Winning isn’t about pride or competition. Likewise, defeat isn’t about loss or shame. “ _Shame is but a fleeting emotion,”_ he’d say to his students, their eyes rapt with attention, “ _Control your feelings to control the tide of battle.”_

Lectures were dealt with a heavy, but forgiving hand, always with the intent to uplift and inspire. No matter the lesson, kernels of hope could always be found, becoming fast succor for the desperate and idealistic flock of young trainees. So long as action follows those teachings, there is no such thing as failure.

It was ages before Rokurou himself finally lent an ear to the sweet talk, worn down through repetition bit by bit until he could no longer ignore their temptation. Even now, they war with what he's always known, a way of life that's been beaten and hammered upon his soul so many times the seams have dissolved. To foreign eyes, it must seem like a vicious, backwards upbringing, but to him, it's all he's ever had. Duty and shame were two sides of the same coin, where his kin one moment became vultures the next, picking and tearing at his every flaw until he either weathered the onslaught or bled himself dry.

A life he’d sworn by for years until that scarlet night ripped it all away, tore a gaping hole in the place where he’d once kept a future, a dream, a _name_. A hole the Abbey intended to fill, with whatever Shigure-shaped ideology they could find.

But nothing can truly replace her, their legacy, the name _Shigure_. Artorius, Melchior, the Abbey, their tantalizing promise of structure and strength - they've settled comfortably into Rokurou’s mind, made him lick his lips with the urge to bite down. What always stays him is the hand that lurks in the corners of his thoughts. From within that nine-year hole in his heart, the ghost of that name whispers mouthfuls of ash in his ears.

 _Those are the words of dogs,_ it hisses, all at once the voice of his mother, his ancestors, his abandoned path, _sharing their honey as their canines grow dull. They rise together, but will not rise far. Tell me, Rokurou: are you a warrior, or are you a dog?_

Claws as long as his torso is tall dig into the mud he’d been standing in. The arm they’re attached to is equally huge and exceptionally muscled, covered in a coarse, bright orange fur. Like the gibbons flanking its side, this daemon also takes the likeness of a primate. Unlike the gibbons, who more or less stand at about Rokurou’s height, this beast is huge. It’s hunched over, making an impressive mountain out of its back, and still it towers over his head.

He’s seen the like of this creature before, as a much smaller hand-drawn nightmare on hunt boards in the castle, as handouts in the taverns, on the gates leading in and out of town. Warnings for civilians, challenges for mercenaries. The code red daemons are dangerous marks on their own, but tend to roam a small, static area. Their territories are easy to avoid.

This is not a code red. This is a dire foe.

 _Sharks_ are a closer fit, in his opinion. Once they catch the scent of battle, of blood, they'll cover a startlingly large distance in little time to hunt whatever lies at the end of the trail. Their territories are much harder to gauge, often vast and misshapen. The best one can do to avoid luring them out is to skirt around all conflict. For their line of work, that’s next to impossible. Just their luck.

Rokurou assesses the gibbons more. They do, indeed, appear different from the ones that had lived in the nest. Darker, more saturated with malevolence. Must be the baboon, leaking its influence over those taken by its domain.

Rokurou unsheathes his kodachi in the same motion he makes to strike at its vulnerable underbelly, where the fur is thin. He tries to keep an eye out for Eizen, Eleanor, the other two daemons, but it’s next to impossible as soon as he steps in close. The hulking arms of the baboon blind most of his peripheral. He can only hope the others are managing.

Minutes into the excursion, sloppy footwork invites a solid thrust to Rokurou's shoulder, sending him flying onto his back. It takes a herculean effort to recover, arms sinking like lead. He stretches the shoulder experimentally. Not broken, but there’s a burning numbness that dips down along his clavicle, pools hotly at his side in bundles of screaming nerves. He grips his swords tight, channels the pain and the anger toward the daemon. It’ll pay for that one.

Eleanor leaps into the fray with a valiant upward swing of her spear. While the beast is stunned, she exacts some sweet vengeance with several beautiful tears to its midsection. Off in the distance behind her are the fluttering whites of malakhim robes, deeply entangled in leading the two gibbons astray.

“Focus everything on the big one!” Eleanor says, the gasp in her voice exposing her exhaustion. “Attacks and spells aren't working on the others!”

A domain that mitigates damage? Their luck's gone from bad to worse, but it's nothing they can't handle. Just means they need to be more efficient about things. Like Eleanor said, once the big guy goes down, the underlings will follow suit. Easy.

Rokurou gives his shoulder one last cautionary roll before he propels his frozen body into motion. Tunnels of wind keep the creature distracted, but the legate doesn’t have the luxury of checking whether it’s his malak or Eleanor’s that's giving support before he’s back in close, doing his best to play off her timing. Together, they juggle hits on the daemon, an effort to stave off the creeping fatigue as long as possible.

By the time the daemon even begins to slow, bleeding profusely from numerous cuts and punctures, neither exorcist can hide their heavy breathing, their sagging shoulders. They've taken a few hits themselves, and though they've been touched by a healing spell or two, the artes just aren't an adequate substitute for proper rest.

Once more, Rokurou returns the dual blades to their sheathes.

"Rokurou!" Eleanor provides him the perfect window. The daemon recoils, arms wide, torso laid bare.

He goes in for the kill. The ōdachi flips in an arc across his shoulder, cuts deep under its ribs.

Or rather, it was supposed to.

The baboon manages to tuck itself into a roll at the last moment, a display of agility Rokurou hadn't thought it capable of. Stormhowl barely even grazes its fur, much to his mounting frustration. 

“Damn it!” The fight should have been over long ago. This is hardly the first time he and Eleanor have hunted together. They're better than this. _He's_ better than this.

The momentum of his missed swing propels him into a tailspin. In the precious seconds it takes to right his balance, the beast is upon him. He brings up the flat of the blade. Stormhowl’s cover isn't wide enough to protect from more than one or two strikes, but it'll have to do. He’ll take it if it means another chance to strike the bastard down.

_Weak. Disgraceful._

Claws screech up the length of his blade. With a bit of angling, he manages to deflect them off course. Rokurou then pushes forward through the opening, aware that doing so leaves his entire right side unguarded. It's a stupid, reckless move, but the fire has swelled inside him, too big to contain. Ichirou could wield Stormhowl singlehanded, even back when he was younger than Rokurou is now.

His hands tremble around the hilt. If Ichirou can do it, so can he. It's worth the risk.

_"Idiot!"_

Before Rokurou's arm can be sliced to ribbons, there's a sickening crack of bones from several blows to the daemon's back, courtesy of a particularly irate earth malak. As the daemon staggers, Rokurou is whipped harshly in the opposite direction. Eizen's grip on his arm is fierce, painful even, as he forces Rokurou to retreat. Eleanor's support spells fire behind them, covering their tracks.

Rokurou spares only the briefest glance. "Thought we agreed on distance support only?"

Eizen flexes his knuckles, languid motions that belie years of experience.

"Thought we also agreed on not dying," he says.

"You should've stayed back, I had it."

"And he would've had you, too. Don't be so careless, you're enough trouble as it is."

"Not as much trouble as your shitty marking!" Rokurou charges back in, hollering over his shoulder as he does. He meant to say it with more levity. Eizen's lackluster accuracy with spells is a pain, but not the core of Rokurou's anger. Fundamentally, they have little to do with each other. But the words are abrasive, and another pinch of guilt settles in his conscience, in company to Shigure's silent judgement.

Eizen doesn't humor his jab with any response. Neither does he seem to have any trouble matching Rokuorou’s pace, charging in right at his side like he's done it his whole life. As they come upon the enemy, they split apart smoothly, each taking a side to flank. The daemon instinctively cranes its neck, desperate to keep an eye on Eizen and his iron fists. At the same time, the rest of its body twists, baited towards Rokurou. With its attention split, its movements are clumsy and unfocused. Rokurou couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.

The angle is less than ideal, but Stormhowl performs marvelously regardless, tearing deep into the demon's arm as it blindly makes a swipe at him. The blade threads between the claws, wedging through thick skin and carving a large half-moon out of the muscle. The discarded flesh rockets well out of eyesight from the force of the blade.

With a pained roar, the beast attempts to retaliate with its remaining arm. Eizen takes advantage of the diversion to strike with his fists, coinciding with an arte that pelts the foe with slabs of earth. And then comes Eleanor from behind, having snuck around in the commotion. 

As her spear connects with the spine, what should have been a victorious blow is cut short when the baboon unleashes a piercing shriek. It is nothing like the wailing from before; the volume alone is deafening, to say nothing of the pitch, shrill against the ears like shards of glass. The trio recoil against the noise, and the baboon uses the reprieve to knock them all back, followed by a powerful leap with its hind legs. It soars beyond their heads for an impressive distance, raining blood from its wounds.

A startled noise escapes Eleanor's malak as the massive beast slams down beside it, interrupting its quarrel with the enthralled gibbons, who circle the perimeter hungrily. The malak makes a token effort to retreat, but the movements are wretchedly mechanical, lacking the sort of fear or urgency expected of someone so vulnerable.

Rokurou's still holding a palm to his head when Eizen nearly takes him out, so focused he is on making it to the daemon in time.

"Hey, hold it!" the legate shouts, the volume of his own voice causing him to wince.

Pillars of rock jut out between Eleanor's malak and the daemon, effectively nudging the spirit out of harm's way and halting the beast's pursuit. Rokurou hopes Eizen will be smart and stop there, but of course he doesn't. He barrels onward in a frontal assault, his own safety forgotten.

The pulsing in his head dims, and Rokurou pulls himself together as quickly as he can. He reaches inward, brings their mana link to the forefront of his focus, to where he can see the connection in his mind. Eleanor is on a similar thread of thought, recalling her dazed malak to safety in a shimmer of light. Rokurou reaches out to his own malak, ordering his swift return.

He’s met with something unexpected. Rejection.

The link whips back against him like a slamming door, cracking against his skull with a blast from his partner’s domain. Absently, Rokurou brings a hand to his front, as if it could fill the vacant space in his soul where he'd hoped his malak would be. He clutches the fabric beneath his palm, and it does nothing to calm his trembling fingers.

Eizen dives at the beast, summons those molten chains of gold Rokurou became so acquainted with in the past. They wrap around whatever they can reach, a knot of glowing snakes squeezing arms, legs, neck, and torso in thin, tight coils. Each length is rooted firmly to Eizen’s core, gruesome extensions of a livid soul thirsty for blood.

Claws slam into Eizen's side. The baboon’s strength, ignited by pain and rage and adrenaline, must be brutal, if not fatal, at such close range. It's a clean hit, enough to send the man soaring. Rokurou's heart stutters in his chest.

And then the beast explodes. 

Limbs twist in sinewy, grinding creaks as the torque of the chains snap them right off. The beast dies in an instant, likely without ever realizing what had happened. The reaper took a gamble with his namesake, just to use the daemon's own strength against it. If not for how horrified he was, Rokurou might have been awed by the display.

Instead, he swings into motion, in the process nearly losing a boot to the mercy of the mud. He runs, desperate to close the distance between him and the malak hurtling through the sky, chains swinging in a wild, gory trail behind him. Eleanor is calling out to them, but Rokurou can't focus on that, too frenzied by thoughts stirred from a sudden onslaught of fear. How bad is the wound? Is he conscious, is he alive? The geas, Eizen can't leave his side - how far does it reach? A hundred meters, a thousand? He can't find out, not like this.

He stretches as far as he can - one arm could make all the difference, he thinks frantically - and tries once more to issue a command, invokes the name _Fahsvuw Wexub_ with as much authority as he can.

Coiled around their link, his hand feels especially empty when Eizen crashes into the lake, disappearing beneath its crystal depths.

 _A dog it is, then,_ Shigure whispers in the hollow of his bones.

 _No._ Rokurou bites at his lip, hard enough to bleed as he rips Stormhowl off, drops it to the mud, and takes a plunging leap after him.

____

When Eizen finally cracks his eyes open, he expects to see the lawless blues of the open sea, so vivid the image is in his dreams. The laughter of his crew still tickles his ears, accompanied by the rustle of breeze-kissed sails. He’s lying on his back, staring up at what he wishes were vibrant, sunny skies, only to be disappointed as it crumbles into night’s inky canvas, haphazardly speckled with stars. Amenoch's belt twists above in a knot of twelve shimmering points, delicately laid amidst a milky blanket.

The fact that he’s here lying on the lakebed, alive, means his little trick had worked. He sits up too quickly, to his misfortune, and soon finds himself once again splayed on his back, staring at Amenoch’s twelve stars. He remembers hitting the water, sinking to a point where he could barely tell what way was up. He’d tried to swim at some point, had been _desperate_ to, but a severe injury had stopped him. That was when something had jumped into the water after him.

Or some _one_ , to be more accurate. Just a few paces away, dressed in spare clothes, his vessel sits hunched before a pleasantly crackling fire. A length of canvas has been spread across the ground, the only thing keeping the mud at bay. Propped up near the flames with branches hangs the legate's wrinkled uniform, still dripping water. Rokurou's legs are crossed, sword leaned against his shoulder, cradled in one arm. His eyes are closed, but he’s far from asleep. They flutter out of their meditative state at the sign of movement.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says.

"Morning, yourself." Eizen at first has nothing more to say, catching the unease brewing behind the other's gentle, if odd greeting. Night be damned, it’s too early to deal with this kind of headache. After a lengthy pause, he finally settles with, “I take it that praetor woman is back at the camp?”

“Yeah,” Rokurou says with a small yawn. “Teresa was supposed to send out a sylphjay if we didn’t make it back by nightfall, so someone needs to be there to send it back and let them know about the crates. Her malak came back to hand over some supplies, but that was a while ago. We couldn’t just leave you here, and really, someone should guard this stuff ’til it's picked up anyway, so here we are."

Eizen considers the implications of the legate’s words. _You’ve been out for hours. You ignored my orders. We couldn’t move you. So here we are._ Today's been long and exhausting, but he’s seen what the exorcist is capable of. He doesn’t buy that the cargo needs much in the way of protection, not when they’ve gone and cleared out anything in the area that would bother taking an interest. If Rokurou really wanted to, he could have made it back to their makeshift base, even if he had to drag Eizen’s dead weight the whole way. Either he’s placating the worries of that woman, or-

“You’re hurt,” he concludes.

Rokurou looks at him through narrowed eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Show me.” He leans in. Rokurou glares, and in the span of a breath, Eizen suddenly finds himself staring down the glinting steel point of a sword.

“I said, I’m fine,” the man insists. It’s near indiscernible, but having spent so much time getting acquainted with the other's habits, it’s easy to tell his breath is uneven. “A few bruises won't slow me down.”

“Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Could say the same about you. What was that, earlier? You make a big show of saying not to be careless, then nearly get yourself cut in half?" With a low growl, Rokurou sheathes his blade, a smooth motion that betrays little discomfort. "You should have told me you couldn't swim."

"I'm an earth malak. The Abbey at least taught you what that meant, didn’t they?" Maybe he'd forgotten, in the moment. A lot was surely happening at the time. But as the man said himself, Eizen was nearly cut in half for his troubles. Whether or not he could wave his arms in the water wouldn’t have made a difference. Eizen’s not even sure why it was brought up, outside of perpetuating the argument.

"Shut up. If I hadn't realized you were still sinking-"

"But in the end, you did. What's done is done, and now you know."

Drafts of cold air hit his abdomen from where the daemon had raked his side. The whole right of his uniform hangs in jagged ribbons, making the smooth, unblemished skin of his stomach even more impressive to behold. Rokurou has no healing prowess of his own, which means that praetor is to thank for keeping his organs accounted for.

"You can see for yourself the talents of your subordinate. I'm offering the same favor for you now. Don't think shirking help makes you seem tougher; glory only waits for those brave _and_ sensible."

Rokurou chews on his lip, eerily quiet. He tussles his hair and lets out a frustrated snarl.

"I'm still pissed," he says. "Don't think we're done yet." Nevertheless, he uncurls from his defensive hunch and sidles up beside Eizen.

The legate's current state of dress is a simple layered robe, the outerwear made of a plain white fabric and gold trim, far less ostentatious compared to the dozen or so intricate pieces that go into his normal attire. Unraveling the lengthy belts and folds, the robe is soon discarded to reveal several wraps of bandages around the man's torso and upper shoulder. Some areas already show signs of fresh bleeding, so Eizen sets to work immediately.

He's not as gifted with healing as the other exorcists in their group, but he's adequate enough to have kept the _Van Eltia_ afloat for the last however many years. He's not a miracle-worker, but he can at least close wounds. Beneath the tape, it's hard to tell how grave it is, but Rokurou remedies that issue with a quick swipe of his knife. Tugging away the soiled bandages reveals firm, toned muscles, littered in blotches of green and purple, with a deep gash in particular that stretches around his neck, disappearing over the shoulder. There’s a swollen area by the navel about the size of a grapefruit where Eizen is positive at least one, if not both floating ribs are broken. He pumps more mana into the angry red and watches with a keen eye as the fractured bone tucks itself back into place.

"In my defense, not that that probably means much," Rokurou says, observing the arte curiously, "I didn't think it was that bad at the time. Eleanor looked ready to collapse, so I told her I could manage. And then-"

The legate gestures with his hand, leading Eizen to peer past the dark edge of the fire, where he can just make out the angled silhouettes of opened crates. Fallen lids tilted up in the grass, cracked in half or dangling precariously from their container's lip. No wonder the man was bleeding through his wrappings, he must have opened damn near half the cases over the course of the evening.

"-was hoping I'd find something useful, pack of gels at least. Nope. Just more of that church shit." Rokurou catches the very prominent look Eizen sends him. "Your curse sure picks weird things to get up in arms about."

Eizen hums, wraps up the arte, and leans against crossed legs. "I did what I could. You should redress the area just to be safe, but by tomorrow it probably won't be necessary."

"Thanks," Rokurou mumbles, with all the excitement of chewed leather.

Near the edge of the firelight is what could loosely be described as a tent thrown together with spare canvas, rope, and a couple stacks of crates on either side. Beneath its subpar cover is a standard bedroll. For a single night's rest, it does the job, but it's admittedly a far cry from the pristine Abbey bases Eizen’s seen before, or even their actual camp set up outside the lakelands. It says a lot about their current state, he thinks.

Rokurou ducks inside momentarily, comes back out dragging a pack from one of the horses. Rummaging inside, he pulls out what remains of the medical tape, as well as a glazed ceramic jug Eizen suspects is full with rice wine. Trust someone like Rokurou to be prepared for any occasion to drink.

"Catch," is the only warning Eizen receives. On reflex, he grabs whatever was thrown. Fitted neatly in his palm is a flat, saucer-like cup.

Rokurou plops back down next to him, fresh gauze in hand. He waves it at the jug.

"Feel free to get started. We're gonna need it if we wanna get anywhere with-" he spares a moment to look Eizen up and down, like he’s seeing him for the first time, "-this."

Honestly, that was Eizen's intention with or without invitation. The tension between them is stifling, and knowing they'll have to address _why_ it's there is a task that he's not about to start sober. The first serving goes quick, burns with a sweet lingering aftertaste all the way down his throat. Smooth. A good drink. Before he’s even done swallowing, Eizen is tipping himself a second helping. If he can't drink enough to stop talking, he can at least drink enough to stop caring.

Eizen is on his fourth or fifth pour when the jug is plucked from his grasp. Rokurou tips the whole thing against his mouth, apparently in no mood to humor the pace of his own cup.

“You, uh,” Rokurou says after several takes of sake, “you can dry off, too. If you want.” He points between Eizen and himself to get the idea across, but the lack of eye contact only serves to make the gesture awkward. “Might be more comfortable.”

The idea of retreating to Rokurou's consciousness before they've settled anything, even for the sliver of time it'd take to loosen the stale water from his clothes, feels suddenly inappropriate.

"I'll wait."

"Alright." Rokurou almost sounds disappointed, punctuating the silence with another long drink.

When he finally relinquishes the jug, with a decisively humble pour to his sorely ignored cup, there's a flush to his cheeks and nose that stands out even against the fire. Eizen figures it's only fair if he gets to copy, and tips the bottle up to indulge. It's a disservice to guzzle a drink this nice, and if it were any other night he'd raise a fuss over the effort and artistry of the brew being underappreciated. The burning film that settles in a spot between his eyes and his ears is enough to shelve that inner conundrum away.

The sake makes several more rounds after that, each participant mutely topping his cup as a means of delaying the impending talk. If Rokurou is hoping Eizen will lose patience and speak first, he's sorely mistaken; Eizen’s triumphed in far fiercer staredowns for far stupider reasons.

"I don't care," Rokurou starts, then stops, grumbles a little, rolls the empty cup between his thumb and forefinger. "No, that's a bad way to put it. It doesn't _matter_ , that - whether you tell me anything or not. About you, your life. I don't need to know. I'd _like_ to, but if you never feel bothered to say anything - I can accept that."

Eizen sets the jug down between them. That wasn't the note he imagined they'd start on, but with this particular human, when has anything met his expectations?

Rokurou flips his cup in the air, looks Eizen dead in the eye as it comes down easy in his hand. Right-side up, too. "But that weird shit out there with the marking, and ignoring my calls? That wasn't just your bad luck curse, or whatever; you don't trust me."

"Of course I don't." The other winces from how quick Eizen affirms his suspicion. "I rely on my own strength to carry me through. That's just my way."

"But it's not just your life at stake," the legate counters, and well, suppose he does have a point there. "I'm not asking you to do whatever I say without reason. But in combat, at least, we need to be on the same page.”

"I'm not disagreeing with you, but it takes more than a few hours of practice to build camaraderie. How can I trust you to have my back when you barely have your own?"

Rokurou makes a noise like he's about to respond, seems to think better of it, and bites the words off. He's silent for a long while.

Finally, he says, "I know I'm not perfect. I take a lot of things too far, and I make a lot of mistakes. I wasn't raised to fight like how the Abbey's taught us; that's all still new to me, too. But I want to make this work. That's just who _I_ am." Rokurou gives Eizen a pleading look. "So, help me out, Eizen - what needs to change to stop being your enemy?"

That gives him pause. From all that pent up anger, he'd been expecting more bullheadedness, or worse, deflection. It's human nature to be defensive when they feel they've been wronged, or their efforts dismissed, and that in turn can become twisted into malevolence. But Rokurou knows this, he must, to be showing humility instead, without a hint of poison to be found in Eizen’s lungs.

Rokurou actually wants this to work. This, _them_ , their pact. That's admirable. And above all-

"You used my name."

"I've _been_ using your name."

"Only the one I explicitly asked you not to."

"I guess in my head, I was hoping it'd reinforce, I don't know, our bond or something. Cause we're equals and stuff."

"Well, congratulations, it did the opposite."

"Okay, smartass, if you want the petty answer, it's cause you've _never_ used mine, and I wanted to make a point."

"You've been keeping track this whole time?"

"Only cause I've been _waiting_ for it this whole time!"

Of course he has. Rokurou holds grudges easily, and over such trivial things. It's stupid, in the grand scheme of things. Childish. But to him, they're _important_. And Eizen's seen, several times now, how much attention Rokurou prioritizes for the things he sees as important.

Empyreans know why Eizen seems to be included in that list.

"I suppose I'll start with an apology, then." Eizen pours what turns out to be the last of the sake into his cup, but stares into it instead of drinking immediately. "To clarify, I'm sorry for trivializing your feelings, and for the repercussions my actions had on the party. I won't apologize for anything else. I made decisions I thought were in my best interest using everything I knew at the time. Prolonging the fight would only increase risk to the malakhim, so I did what I could to end it quickly. But, I too, am imperfect. I'd be inviting even greater misfortune pretending life has always gone the way I intended."

"I tried calling you back a second time. Was that an accident, or did you ignore me on purpose then, too?"

"Both, I guess."

"You guess," Rokurou says evenly, quietly. More to fill the air than to be accusatory, but Eizen feels pinned regardless.

"It's hard to explain."

"That doesn’t give me much to go on, you know."

It's Eizen's turn to fall into silence, not quite able to find the words. How does he explain to Rokurou that the mere association he has with Melchior is bad enough to mess with his marking, to say nothing of their aforementioned trust issues? That his long list of reasons not to open up is based on pure speculation on what might and might not be harmful? More time spent getting to know Rokurou may not even solve their problems if Eizen can't break the mental connection he's made between him and the man symbolizing his problems: the Abbey, the tethers, the lost memories, the geas, that instinct of danger lurking around every corner.

Eizen may not consciously recall much of his time under tether, but his body does - Rokurou ordering him through their link, regardless of reason, had his fists quaking with rebellion, the swordsman suddenly no better than the line of strangers that came before him. He'd never felt a stronger urge to burn their pact than he had in that moment, and if he stops to dwell on it, he's a bit frightened by how involuntarily he'd snapped back to that remembered feeling. Of helplessness, of rage, of the need to _break_ something.

Eizen threads his fingers around the sake. Now is the point where he has to make a choice. A choice that mends the present, or a choice that preserves the future, and a hypothetical future at that. He still has so many questions - Aifread's whereabouts, that rogue malak in Abbey robes, the keen interest in that weapon from the far continent - but is alienating his vessel worth holding onto those secrets? There's being cautious, and there's being paranoid, and in Eizen's long life of suffering, it's a bit harder to distinguish the difference anymore.

Rokurou is kind, often generously so, more often stupidly so, and it's an endearing trait to say the least. But Rokurou could easily be a tool for the Abbey in more ways than he's aware of - divulging information of any sort to him is a risk.

Rokurou is childish, and shows many signs of loneliness, signs he recognizes easily from the ones that tore at his heart when he visited his sister in those tall, isolated mountains - that still tear at him knowing how long it's been since he stopped visiting - and to see them in Rokurou pulls hard at those ageworn feelings. But Rokurou is close, so dangerously close, to the man holding all the strings of the Abbey, strings Eizen knows are more likely to be pulled the more he lets others in.

Rokurou wants more than a weapon out of his malak - he wants strength, he wants power, but he also wants a companion, someone to lean on - _a partner_. But Rokurou still slips every now and then into the learned mentality of the Abbey - little words, little phrases, that still tell Eizen there's a lot of work left before he can look at the exorcist and trust there are no thoughts of ownership in his eyes.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Rokurou is a lot of work.

But he's also a lot of other things.

"Rokurou."

The name is strange to say, but flows nicely off the tongue. Rokurou's gaze is so focused on what Eizen has to say, he's almost embarrassed by what he's about to do next.

"You were right: me and the Abbey got off on the wrong foot. But that has little to do with me and you."

Praying that his curse gives him a break for once, he reaches over with the final cup of sake. That he manages to pour half the liquid in Rokurou's with minimal spillage or mishap is such an accomplishment, Eizen feels like he's won the entire world just from that.

"So let's start over," he finally says, and can't keep the smile out of his voice or his face as he holds his cup up in a familiar gesture that takes Rokurou several seconds to come around to. "I'm Eizen. I'm here to find the captain of my ship, and my dream is to make a map of the world."

A charming grin stretches the corners of Rokurou's cheeks as his own cup is hoisted into the air. The chill must have grown, as his complexion is noticeably redder.

"I'm Rokurou," he says, "I'm here on orders of House Capalus, and my dream is to kill my brother."

They clink their cups together, softly, gently, for the edges are shallow, and ever since that first time, Rokurou's always taken care to use his left hand.

"Nice to meet you," they say as each downs their serving of drink, sighing as the sweet wine settles in their bellies.

Eizen is able to enjoy the sake in earnest for approximately four seconds before the mood is unceremoniously broken by a punch to his chest. His head had been so light, so airy with all the weight that'd melted off his shoulders, he hadn't even seen the blow coming. 

"Ow.”

"I told you I was still pissed. That's for getting yerself cut in half, I was worried sick you dumb fuck!”

Rokurou must have been sitting on that punch all evening. Maybe it was meant to be a lighthearted jab, but to Eizen, it certainly stings with enthusiasm. As he massages the area, his lungs can’t seem to decide whether he’s laughing or coughing, settling for a stilted hybrid of both.

“Any other grievances you need to get out?” he asks.

“No. Well, actually, _yes_ , but nothing this stupid.” Rokourou folds his arms into the wide sleeves of his robe. His frown deepens into more of a pout, and he grumbles quietly to himself. More wheezing escapes Eizen when he catches what the other is saying: “Even if it _was_ kinda cool looking. Piece of shit bastard."

Eizen didn't think it possible since leaving the _Van Eltia_ , but for just a moment, he feels like he's home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Groundswell: long-period waves generated by distant storms. Often, the storms are far enough away where they aren't present along the shoreline. These waves are larger, stronger, and carry more energy than wind-driven waves. I figured it was fitting for Eizen and Rokurou, who've been carrying this stormy drama all this time, to start their relationship over on friendlier terms. Hopefully this will lead to some powerful waves [of gay friendship]. :3c
>   * Shamelessly lifting the term of "marking" from Tales of the Abyss, though there are probably a billion similar meta explanations for magic systems that handwave friendly fire. It's mentioned maybe three times ever in Abyss, and even then as the most offhanded detail possible, but it's always stuck with me as an interesting bit of worldbuilding.
>   * There is no physically conceivable way Rokurou can wear Stormhowl on his back and still be able to draw it. It is physically impossible, given the type of scabbard he uses and the way he secures it. Even if he could draw it in one go, it would be super impractical. It's hilarious that Shigure's lazy over-the-back gravity-powered draw is somehow more grounded in reality than Rokurou's. That said, we're going with rule of cool here and saying he can do it anyway. lol
> 

> 
> And with this chapter, we've officially caught up to the backlog of what I've written up until now. The next chapter is about 60% done, then needs to be polished a bit before posting. Hopefully the wait won't be too long. I have a general outline and a list of scenes I want to include in this fic, but how long it will take to get there is anyone's guess. lol But I'm determined to see this through to the end, no matter how long it takes!!! [shakes fist]
> 
> For everyone who made it this far, thank you for reading! Your kudos and comments give me so much life. :'D ♥


	6. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in Port Zekson prompts Eizen to retrace his steps, leading to an emotional discovery in the woods.

_Ortion Rose Tailoring._

Supposedly, the master cutter of the establishment used to be a prominent figure in the Asgardian military. Looking at him, Rokurou would hardly guess he was a prominent figure in anything. Flashiness, perhaps. Knighthood, no. This is the second time visiting as a patron, and his opinion remains unwavered.

Inside the front door is a small service lounge, where Rokurou has nothing to do except sit. A handful of books and pamphlets decorate the center table, but do little to pique his interest. There’s a fibrous texture to the air, smelling strongly of fabric and starch and the unmistakable press of steamed irons. Spools of thread line the wall dividing the front of the house with the back, and every now and then, a young man with vibrant green hair darts through an opening in the wall to grab this or that from behind the main desk.

To the left is the fitting area, where the master cutter himself is taking down Eizen's measurements in quick, flamboyant fashion. Neutral-colored dividers are left accordioned against the wall. Being the only two customers, privacy isn't exactly an issue, allowing Rokurou full view of everything. Eizen holds his arms at particular angles and bends into postures of varying stiffness with as much ease and familiarity as he shows in combat. Very unlike Rokurou's experience, which he recalls as a frustrating dance of fidgeting and constant correction.

They've been at it now for at least half an hour. They must nearly be done now, right? Rokurou yawns, leaning against his hand in a remarkable slouch that feels more unkempt the longer he stares at the line of measuring tape running parallel to Eizen's squared shoulders. The initial burst of interest he'd entertained when they first walked in has long evaporated with the passage of time, and now all Rokurou wishes is to open the door and be lured away by the sights and smells of Zekson's port market. Surely Eizen can wrap up the order on his own, right?

 _The geas,_ he reminds himself, sinking further into his seat. Even if he could wander off, he wouldn't dare go beyond the storefronts on either side of the building. And if he remembers right, neither neighbor sells food _or_ blades. Completely worthless.

Eizen mentioned it last night, and then again that morning on their way to port. A strong urge had overwhelmed him when he’d been flung into the lake. Swim, go back, by any means possible. Eizen insists it felt unnatural, even for a life or death situation, and his tone carried the persuasion of someone well acquainted with that sort of trial. But Rokurou is hesitant. If the claim is true, the range of the geas is worrisomely shorter than he feared. Thinking about it makes him regret leaving his batch of rice wine at the inn.

"How long until the first fitting?" Rokurou perks up at the sound of Eizen's voice, only slightly dampened by shoes scuffing the wood floor.

"Please, don't patronize me," the cutter says humorously. Elbow in hand, he leans to one side with his cheek cushioned by the flat of his fingers. "It'll be done by tomorrow. Do return by midday at the latest."

Eizen's jaw goes slack, long enough for Rokurou to catch, before the blond is shaking his head with a grin. Down near Eizen's waist, his thumb makes a jittering motion, forming a loose fist and springing out. Rokurou vaguely recalls similar gestures from before, one of Eizen’s many little idiosyncrasies. They’re charming reminders that no one else in the world is quite like him.

"We leave it in your capable hands, as always," Rokurou says, straightening out the ends of his robe as he stands.

"Of course, darling," the cutter addresses him with a forward turn of his wrist, "the reputation of Saphir the Rose allows only the highest quality results."

A few formalities later finally sees an end to Rokurou's boredom as the pair bid farewell, stepping out onto the sunny streets of Port Zekson. Rokurou's nose is immediately assaulted with salt, pollen, fish, and at least half a dozen breads and meats that waft up with the sea breeze, enough to rouse the appetite of even the fullest traveler. _Ortion Rose_ lies at the southern edge of town, just a short walk from the city gates, yet its location does nothing to mask the aromatic delights of the markets, where town meets shipyard in a beautiful carnival of tradesfolk from every corner of Midgand.

"Saphir is an interesting man," Eizen says. Hands awkwardly paw at his hips, searching for pockets in a uniform with nothing to offer. The huge tears from the other day have been haphazardly mended with cloth scraps and borrowed thread. Eizen's not too shabby with a needle, but clean stitching doesn't do its appeal any favors.

"Yeah, he's a real peach," Rokurou says dismissively, grabbing at Eizen's elbow and giving it a soft tug. "You can tell me all about him later, let's get some food first!"

"My point was that he’s working with malakhim."

"Oh?" Once he's certain Eizen will keep up, Rokurou loosens his hold. It’s early, but the cobbled streets are already packed with people. "What makes you say that?"

"For starters, the kid that came to the front a few times was a wind malak."

"Maybe those rumors of him working at the castle were true."

"Mm, perhaps. I didn't sense a tether between them, though. If they do have a pact, it's different from what the Abbey uses."

"You think the Abbey knows?” Rokurou crosses his arms behind his head and looks for shapes in the clouds. If he squints, he can almost see a marlin swimming in the sky. “Far as I know, he’s the only one making our uniforms.”

“They must. Anyone with basic knowledge of the craft would know that kind of speed is unheard of.” Without pause, Eizen steers Rokurou by the sleeve two steps to the right. The swordsman narrowly avoids knocking into a burly pedestrian, racing up the road with huge sacks of grain balanced atop each arm. Rokurou's eyes remain fixed in the clouds, tracing the fluffy edge of a beetle carapace.

“Is that not normal? He talks about it like it’s nothing.”

“For what we just ordered? ‘Normal’ is three to five weeks, and that’s just for the first fitting. Adjustments are made based on client reaction, and the process repeats until they’re satisfied.” Rokurou gives a low whistle, genuinely impressed now. “The malakhim must be equally as talented, to work that kind of turnaround."

"I didn’t know that much went into making clothes," Rokurou says, "When we picked up our uniforms, I didn’t even question it.” Even as a child, he never gave thought to where his clothes came from. The only exception were the extravagant kimono sets commissioned for special occasions. Pieces that important would take months, sometimes up to a year to complete; there was a famous spinner family stationed in Ywain his mother always favored. Beautiful silks, hemp, and cotton, all spun, dyed, and painted by masterful hands. Small fortunes were embroidered into their bodies for ceremony, for intimidation, for any purpose his lord desired. The Rangetsu clan is as much a trophy as it is a weapon, and often brandishes both at once.

Down a handful of steps and through a stone archway, the shopping district transforms into a bustling shipyard, where the heart of the market beats proudly against the lungs of the sea. Rokurou lets his nose lead him in the right direction, his partner following at a leisure pace. The sweetly juiced pop of buttered corn, perhaps? Or the richly sauced beef skewers sizzling on the grill? There are fruit stands sampling freshly harvested melons and peaches, frying stands oiling up all manner of catch or vegetables. Farther from the plaza, down even more cobbled steps to the sea-dampened pier are the fish markets, offering whole fish on ice, live crabs and mollusks, cuts of sashimi, lime-cured ceviches, so many colors and textures it’s difficult to choose. As Midgand’s largest trading port, Zekson certainly lives up to its reputation; Rokourou still remembers how blown away he’d been when his brother first led him through the maze of stalls, back when the counters stood up to his chin. The market has only grown larger since.

He finally comes to a stop near an unassuming fish stall. Simple wood with a plain fabric canopy. A ship is moored at the bollard behind them, where the crew is divided between unloading the morning catch and selling their wares to the highest bidder. A tarp is blanketed nearby, where two crewmen lay down a tuna the size of a cannon.

"Hey, Eizen, check this out," he says, pulling the malak closer to admire the fisherman's skill. Arms darkened by the sun, with muscles finely sculpted from long seasons on the water, wield the blocky butcher's knife with architectural precision. Cracking the blade several times in the back of the tuna's head, the sailor’s companion leverages his fingers against the bony cheeks and pries the head loose with one sweeping motion. Fresh blood spills against the tarp as the guts are dragged out, and several young children watching the demonstration cry out in disgust and excitement.

"Looks like a yellowfin, commonly found in deep waters off Southgand's western shores," Eizen observes. "Occasionally, their migration paths will take them closer to Midgand, where they'll school for about two months out of the year. It's unusual for the ones caught here to be quite this large, though. Must have taken the whole crew to haul it aboard."

"That's right, you're from a p-" Rokurou covers the slip with a very convincing sneeze, "-merchant ship. All this must be pretty boring to you, then."

"Not at all. It's always worth appreciating the talents of hard workers."

Rokurou licks his lips as a much narrower blade glides through the underbelly of the fish, flush with the bone. The cut is confident, perfectly separating meat from the spine to leave as little behind as possible. Gulls crowd around Rokurou’s heels, desperate for a free sample.

Unfortunately for the birds, those smaller scraps are instead tossed into the ocean: sinewy bits shaved off the cut, tubes of offal stripped from the belly. The children gasp and yell as fish frenzy at the surface, splashing droplets of saltwater against their cheeks and toes. Caught up in their infectious energy, Rokurou peeks over the edge as well, but he's too late. The water is dark and opaque, nothing left to see but waves and bubbles.

"If you were in Yseult, the water would be crystal clear," Eizen chuckles next to him, and Rokurou rights himself. As he turns in Eizen's direction, he catches the ocean in his eyes, glimmering gentle blue. "Rays crowd the beaches there. They can tell when the fishermen are tossing their scrap, and down south, the catches can get downright _monstrous_. Let me say, there's nothing quite like seeing a whole squadron take to the shores at once; combined with the arrowed wingspan of the southern albatross, you can watch the whole beach, from sea to sky, turn pitch black."

Sounds unreal to Rokurou, unlike anything he's ever experienced here in Midgand, or up north in the glaciers. He's trained in all sorts of locales, but the capital is as far south as he's ever been. Eizen's stories are gateways into worlds he's never thought to give notice to, simple words that somehow make even the mundane seem fascinating.

"Answer honestly," he says, eyes round with curiosity, "what haven't you done?"

"Plenty. This world is vast, and changing every day, after all."

"You sound like an old man." When Eizen gives him a tired look, Rokurou can't help the peals of laughter that spill out. "The absolute spitting image."

They watch the crew break down the rest of the tuna, and share some colorful stories with the sailors idling by. They've been through it all, it seems: seastorms, sea monsters, sea wrecks, sea cucumbers. Rokurou's own experiences with fishing don't really compare, not when he has the shipmates on one side and Eizen on the other, who waxes poetic about life on the waters and the historical value of outdated fishing techniques, packed with such vivid detail they can't have been less than personal anecdote. Rokurou is far better acquainted with fish after they've stopped breathing, where blades speak louder than words. He can sing ballads about fish all day from that vantage.

Having chummed around for an adequate duration, Rokurou decides now is the perfect time to ask.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have encountered a well-known merchant ship on your travels? The _Van Valvali_? Ring any bells?"

One of the sailors tilts his head, then barks out a laugh at some unspoken joke. "You got beef with em, sir?"

Rokurou wraps his arm around Eizen's shoulders and points under his chin. Not expecting the sudden motion, Eizen stiffens beneath his grasp, but does nothing to resist the hold.

"This guy's got a brother onboard. Was hoping we might catch them at port while we're still in town."

The sailor locks eyes with Eizen. Whatever he sees must have been worthwhile, for the man's grin widens and he guffaws into the harbor.

"You mean that scrawny kid with the bird?" The sailor slaps his knee, but Eizen doesn't dispute his words. "No offense, mister exorcist, but your brother has his work cut out for 'im."

To that, Eizen smiles back. "I wouldn't worry. He's very resilient."

"For his sake, I sure hope so! But it's been a while since we last crossed sails. Our circuit is mainly the southern seas. Saw 'em in Yseult loading up on the docks, but that was a season past, at least."

"That's too bad,” Rokurou says with a shake of his head, “Well, thanks for the info, at least. Maybe we'll catch up someday."

As luck would have it, the fish Rokurou was eyeing all conversation has already been spoken for, by a famous restaurant in the shopping district that specializes in seafood. In the end, he walks away with a simple sweetfish, pulled right out of Galles Lake just the other day. Already cured heavily with salt, the crew points him over to a stall he'd passed on the way down. A bit of negotiating later, and Rokurou stares with a shamelessly watering mouth as his fish is skewered and grilled on the spot.

"Not much of a lead, huh?" he says as they leave the shipyard, crunching down on the perfectly crisped collar of his lunch.

"I’m more impressed you were able to get anything in the first place," Eizen replies. "I didn't expect you to go around asking sailors at random. Though, honestly, I probably should have. It is you, after all."

"Was that the wrong thing to do?”

“No, though there certainly are more efficient ways to do it.” Rokurou leans his skewered meal in Eizen’s direction, but the blond shakes his head no. Shrugging, Rokurou proceeds to rip the whole head off as Eizen continues, “I’m not familiar with the ship or that crew, so likely, they only recognized us in passing. The fact they remember Benwick, but not someone that looks exactly like me, says a lot. There are others in this port we have a more familiar relationship with. We can check in on it tomorrow, when there are less exorcists in the area.”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten about that,” Rokurou says as he spits out a bone. Tonight will be Teresa’s last in Midgand. By morning, her and several dozen other exorcists will be casting off on a week-long voyage for Hellawes.

By this point, the crowds have multiplied, pouring into the shopping district from all directions to coincide with lunch breaks, travelers, and the scheduled arrivals of trade ships entering the harbor. For convenience, Eizen withdraws, settling cozily inside his vessel as it continues to gnaw at the edges of his fish. The two continue to converse, however, Rokurou now so used to Eizen’s internal voice it’s become almost a comfort to feel the words buzzing against his soul. Ambient noise from the crowds do more than enough to cover the one-sided conversation; Rokurou doesn’t particularly care if he’s overheard or not, they’ve long moved past any sensitive information, but it couldn’t hurt to take a page out of Eizen’s book and have a little foresight against the spread of unwanted rumors.

Unlocking his room at the inn, Rokurou finally feels like he can relax. Tension he hadn't really noticed leaks out of his shoulders, unavoidable given the uniform he wears and what it represents. His jug of rice wine rests on the center table, right where he’d left it, and it’s tempting to take a swig off the top. It’s nothing special, just the first he'd happened to grab from the tavern downstairs, but he resists the compulsion. He wants to save it.

Eizen shimmers into existence next to him as he throws the outer jacket of his uniform onto the back of a chair, leaving the plain black juban underneath. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulls out a few leftover coins from earlier. Casually, he flips them one at a time, to see if he can land one on the cork of the wine.

As the last one flies off the tip of his thumb - it goes wide, bounces, falls to the floor - it occurs to him why the gesture seems so familiar.

 _"Ah!"_ he exclaims suddenly, twisting to face Eizen, who stares back with a startled expression. _"That's_ what you've been doing this whole time, isn't it?!"

Rokurou scoops one of the coins back from the table and examines it like he's unearthed some incomprehensible treasure.

Unsurprisingly, Eizen's response is to sigh, followed by a blunt, "I don't follow."

"That - that _thing_ you're always doing!" Rokurou balls his hand and wriggles his thumb up and down, which he quickly realizes is a very unhelpful pantomime. Remembering then that he does still have a coin in his palm, the legate springs it into the air to demonstrate.

Clarity passes over Eizen's face. "Oh. That."

"Yes. _That_."

This time Eizen angles away, staring at a point on the floor with his irises buried in the canthi of his eyes. His shoulders arch, arms crossed. His partner is sulking. “I, erm, do it without thinking.” A chuffing noise comes through his nose. “I didn’t realize you’d picked up on it.”

“Course I did. Body language is something I’ve trained to look out for since childhood, and you gotta watch the hands in particular cause that’s usually where the weapon is. You’re usually the most jittery when you’re surprised, or when you’re being especially broody.” Eizen seems to deflate even further, too embarrassed for words.

Rokurou flips the gald again, this time with more force, causing it to launch in Eizen’s direction. Catching the flicker of light in his peripheral, Eizen snatches the coin out of the air with incredible accuracy. He examines it carefully in the palm of his hand.

“Always tails,” he comments softly, with unnatural heaviness.

“What does that mean? Your curse?”

Eizen idly flips the coin as he talks, his form far more practiced than Rokurou's clumsier hand. “I had a coin I'd picked up from the far continent. Dated back to the ancient Kharlan civilization, an era of incredible prosperity and constant warfare. The hope and despair of its people was reflected in their culture, through their art, their epics, all the way down to their currency, and they were commonly depicted by the same two figures: the demon king Dhaos, against the radiant goddess Martel. You can laugh as much as you want, but from the moment I laid eyes on it, I felt a deep sense of belonging with that duality, and what it must have meant to the people it left behind. Conflict follows us all, even the purest of saints, in one form or another. But those people embraced that hardship, and pressed on with their faith, even in the face of certain doom. They were true heralds of their own path."

"You still haven't answered my question." The legate plays up impatience with a crooked smile. Eizen's lip curls back, giving himself away.

"Don't interrupt, I'm getting to that," Eizen says, and the scholarly edge comes back in full force. "The coin was minted entirely out of gold, using a mysterious, now-lost technology to harden the surface against erosion, both natural and magical. That level of purity, combined with its age, made it plenty suitable as a vessel, and conversely, greatly susceptible to my curse. The belongings of malakhim, and especially their vessels, become attuned to their wavelengths over time. I could flip that coin for the rest of my life, and only ever know the face of the demon king. But still, I managed to keep it safe for a number of years. Until I lost it." Eizen flips the gald back to Rokurou. The toss is perfect, but Rokurou nearly misses the catch. He checks for the outcome: tails.

"You lost it?" Rokurou traces the geometric lines of Asgard's emblem pressed into the face. "Or, did the Abbey take it?" He avoids Eizen's eye, in case it's too much to answer.

Silence pervades. Then: "Don't know."

A moroseness settles around Eizen's tale, a longing, ageworn admiration that picks at old wounds with a scavenger's beak. Rokurou bears his own reflection in history, a blessing of steel that rests forebodingly against his back. Eizen dons his Reaper's Curse in much the same fashion, a golden badge of dishonor lining his weathered lapels.

“Ya know,” Rokurou finally says, “you could have just said ‘yes’. You didn’t have to go on and on about some ancient town across the sea.”

Eizen grumbles. “Why do I bother telling you anything?”

“Beats me. I’m starting to think you just like hearing yourself talk.” Before Eizen can start sulking again, he adds, “I don’t mind it, though. I like hearing you talk, too. Consider yourself lucky.” It doesn’t occur to him how his words might be taken until he notices Eizen hasn’t said anything, has just been staring at him with slightly wide, contemplating eyes. Rokurou doesn’t correct himself, nor does he say anything further. He means exactly what he says. If Eizen misunderstands or draws his own conclusions, that’s his own doing.

Stewing in the broth of Eizen's laments, Rokurou comes to a swift decision. Only once has he ever truly been apart from Stormhowl, and it was an empty, soulless path he never wants to retread. The fallout caused by the Opening only exacerbated the ache of his missing blade. Stressors that bled beyond his control, left him reaching for water in the midst of a draught. Reclaiming Stormhowl had been like gluing back an old, broken piece of himself. Nothing had changed, he was still small and weak, but all of his hardships suddenly felt so much more _durable_. As long as he had this blade, he would never forget who he is, where he came from. He's a Rangetsu, mightiest warriors of the land, and he will triumph over anything that gets in his way. No longer can he fathom an existence without it, his other half, his soul forged in steel. So, he thinks, how must Eizen feel being torn from that coin?

"Don't even think about it," Eizen cuts in with clinical precision.

Oops, busted. "Oh?" he asks innocently, "What was I thinking about, Mister Reaper?"

"Whether or not I ever see that coin again doesn't matter. There are far more important things to focus on."

"Well, it must matter a little, or you wouldn't have talked like it was so important."

"Where would we even look? The stretch between here and Loegres is far too wide to search by hand. It's a fool's errand."

Stubborn though he is, Rokurou concedes the point. But unfortunately for Eizen, he's already come to a decision on the matter, and he's not about to change his mind so easily.

 _Knock, knock,_ goes the door.

Rokurou tables the thought for now. But only for now.

____

"How about...this?"

"Rokurou, that's a dagger."

"I know! Check out the balance on the blade, it's perfect as a one-handed-"

"I don't think my sister would show as much appreciation for it as you do."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Her loss."

Rokurou's peripheral swivels away from the display of short blades to capture Oscar Dragonia, whose shoulders tremble with laughter at the thought of his regal sister brandishing a knife like some common thug. The two make their way out of the shop empty-handed, and meander onward to the next promising merchant.

Eizen observes from the comfort of his vessel, occasionally peering through Rokurou's eyes, but mostly letting himself drift with the sounds. At first, it was unsettling to not have complete control over his steps, his field of view halting and drifting at the whims of another. Having dwelt within objects his entire life, this has been as new an experience for him as it has been for Rokurou. Whether he actually likes the change, he’s still deciding, but if nothing else, the constant presence of the other’s mana blanketing his is undeniably soothing.

The younger praetor had requested Rokurou's company in shopping for his sister's farewell gift. As it happens, Oscar is to set sail with the morning light as well, making this the last day for either sibling to frolick the capital with any familiar faces. Eizen guessed correctly that the invitation was more for companionship than Rokurou's taste in presents, which thus far consists of blades, sharpening stones, choji oil, and rice paper. The interests of his vessel are so predictably simple, it's almost as charming as it is disappointing.

As if knowing what was on Eizen's mind, Rokurou turns to his fellow exorcist and says, "You know, Eleanor would have been way better at giving this sort of advice."

Oscar looks up from a display of ribbons. "I had originally asked after her whereabouts, but it seems she left port this morning. I'm not sure where she's been."

"Ouch, so I'm just the last resort? You wound me."

"I enjoy spending time with the both of you," Oscar asserts with utter seriousness. "But it is true that Eleanor takes a softer approach to these matters."

"Relax, Oscar, I'm joking." Rokurou claps the blond on the shoulder. Moving in closer to examine the display of accessories, he says, "A ribbon would be pretty nice. She still wears that earring you gave her."

Brilliant green eyes hide behind fair lashes, looking abashed. "That was a family heirloom, if you recall. Mother was quite beside herself when she found out I'd given it to her."

"Oh, I remember. She cuffed you pretty good for it, too. Her Ladyship is one frightening woman."

"She...has her moments, yes."

From his vantage, Eizen is drawn to a long ribbon lined with several dozen others at the top of the display, one that shines against the sunlight in an earthy green. Exactly like one he had bought for his sister, Empyreans know how many centuries ago. Buried somewhere in the scant letters she's written back is the implication she's been using it to tie her hair.

Edna has always been tough, fearless, constantly reprimanding her big brother for his overbearing protectiveness. Eizen can't properly put into words how proud he is of her, hasn't been able to do so for centuries. She deserves so much better, but letters and gifts are all he has to offer. He can only hope she might forgive his cowardice, despite how lonely it must leave her. Maybe next time, he can send her some palmiers; they always were her favorite.

By the time Eizen checks back in on his vessel, it appears they've finished their errand. Oscar clutches the small box and heaves a tremendous sigh, as though he's just felled a great beast.

"I appreciate you accompanying me. I know this isn't exactly your interest." As Rokurou pockets his own purchases, Oscar adds, "Can we expect you for dinner tonight?"

"Yep, I'll be there."

"Wonderful." In a show of formality, or perhaps just habit, Oscar brings his arm in a flat line against his chest and bows lightly. The militant gesture is softened by the praetor's expression, which exudes a familial ray of affection. "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Rokurou. It might be our last for quite a while."

"Ain't that the truth."

Saying their goodbyes, the two part ways. Oscar continues north, further into the shipyard. Before he reaches the archway, Rokurou turns away, sliding the exorcist out of Eizen's sight, and in turn out of mind. Without Rokurou's personal attachment to bridge the gap, the young noble means less to Eizen than the group of nameless sailors who sold Rokurou his lunch.

"Hey, check out what I got us." Rokurou swings a bottle in front of him as he makes a beeline for the inn. Thick, diamond-patterned glass and a wide cylinder stopper. Dark, almost black liquor sloshes inside. A fine aged rum.

 _Not bad,_ Eizen says. _Tonight?_

"Heh, was thinking more like right now."

 _Now?_ Eizen's not prudish. He can appreciate a fine drink at any time of the day, but it's downright inspiring how much his companion seems to enjoy it. Is it alright for a human to ingest so much? As a malak, he never had to worry, and on the ship, he always left the crew to their own devices. If they suffered the consequences of overindulging, that was their choice.

"You heard Oscar. Might not be able to relax this much going forward. Gotta enjoy it while I can." Eizen feels more than he hears the rumble of laughter that rolls out with Rokurou's breath. "Besides, it's a celebration. We gotta do something."

What's there to celebrate? The success of the mission, perhaps? Or the sibling praetors, for receiving their assignments? Nothing Eizen can think of warrants festivity.

No, that's not true. Last night was quite momentous.

Years of learning to push through regret and steer his own ship, forgotten entirely from one excursion with the Abbey. Eizen had slipped up, let himself drift off course, back into familiar, tepid waters, rotted black from all his old abandoned skeletons.

That’s not the Aifread way of doing things. If his captain were there to see him in such a sorry state, there would have been several more fists to his ribs than Rokurou's one measly punch. Nothing, not the swiftest typhoons, nor the might of the entire royal navy, should cloud a true pirate’s eyes, much less the First Mate’s.

Don’t fear the unknown, break it. Mold it. Control it. Plow straight through adversity, and never look back! Words Eizen never thought he’d forget. It’s shameful it happened so quickly, but not anymore. Eizen has faith in his captain, his crew, himself. He won’t ever forget again.

There is still the possibility that Aifread has been detained. Might even be dead for all Eizen knows. And then there's Rokurou, who follows not the hand of the Abbey, but the hand of his lord, either of which may someday become a detriment. Not to mention there's the geas, the ship, Zaveid, Melchior -

Fuck it. If any of that rubbish turns out to be true, he's got two fists more than willing to bust some heads over it.

There's a geas on him. There's a human he's fond of. There's a home waiting for him once his debts are settled. More than enough to keep him occupied.

They're not completely alright. But there is a seed of trust germinating between them, where before there had been nothing, only barren soil amidst a dark forest of thorns. As Eizen broods over what might happen, what disasters their foolhardy decisions may bring, he’s comforted by the reassurance there is a _them_ now and not just a _him._

Honestly, it's not that different from how it was before. But somehow, the simple reassurance that he's no longer alone, that he has someone who will listen and lend a shoulder to the burdens Eizen carries, of the what ifs and maybes - somehow, that changes _everything_.

Alright. If that's what they're celebrating, Eizen can match that enthusiasm.

Beyond the inn door, however, is a young woman with vibrant red hair, pulled into pigtails, speaking with the clerk at the front desk. When their eyes meet, plans are changed.

Such is their luck.

____

"Why are we here." It's not a question. Eizen knows exactly why they're here. But he wants Rokurou to admit it himself.

"I'm helping Eleanor investigate. Weren't you listening?"

"Oh, I was listening. Bullshit. That’s not why we're here, and you know it." Eizen takes a moment to rake his eyes across the great gouges made near the top of the bank. Three lines, tearing into the earth like giant claws. Exactly as he remembers. "I told you already, I _don't need it._ "

"I remember. I was there." Nevertheless, Rokurou skips through the sand, up the middle gouge mark and into the woodland beyond. "We're looking for something _strange_. Your coin is just _old_."

Eizen grumbles, and lets the argument drop. At this rate, all he'll get out of the conversation is a burst blood vessel.

It seems that Eleanor's been quite the sleuth this morning. Investigating further into the stolen cargo, much to Rokurou's initial chagrin, she'd been speaking with members of the clergy for more details. Daemons had specifically been targeting deliveries of Nectar, a highly limited nutritional supplement whose manufacture and distribution is delegated entirely by the church. Records of missed deliveries in hand, she'd gone to interview the exorcists stationed in port, and had received some troubling anecdotes.

Nothing regarding the Nectar supplies, but instead a skirmish that occurred some months ago, dragging several exorcists from their posts on orders stemming from Melchior. Having never heard of any such deployment, and curious of possible connections, Eleanor had gone to investigate. While she saw several signs of intense fighting, nothing remarkable stood out regarding the case. All she could find of notice was a pendulum, string snapped short, half buried in the sand. She planned to continue digging once they returned to Loegres.

Rokurou, meanwhile, saw this as an opportunity. Strange excursions off the Danann Highway, a trail leading back to Melchior, with signs of a massive struggle? Eizen never bothered to mention a pendulum, thinking it irrelevant, but the coincidence is strong enough without it.

Several rounds of questions, followed by some fumbling around on the beach, finally led his human to an area that matched Eleanor's description. She clearly was not asking for assistance, but that's never stopped Rokurou from doing what he wants anyway. Eizen doubts she's even aware they're out here.

Considering how long it took them to find it, he's impressed she even figured out where 'here' was. The battleground is extensive and visually remarkable up close, with trees toppled at gruesome slants, clearings charred to ash, and upturned earth stretching all the way to the shoreline - but only to the seaward side. From the road, the scene is quietly walled off by thick forests and sheer cliffs. A tiny sandbar, barely wide enough for two people, winds around the back, but that too is lined with large rock formations, making it difficult to notice from most angles. To the unknowing eye, none would ever suspect so much destruction hid just beyond the trees.

Rokurou rolls a rock with the toe of his boot, nonchalantly peering into the exposed dirt. He's missed the mark for subtlety by quite a margin.

Nevertheless, Eizen pokes around the debris as well. Regardless of which misguided flavor of generosity they're actually here for, there are a few things he'd like to confirm for himself.

What he remembers most is the beach. The writ of challenge had specified a beach, but the sandbar out front is far too narrow. It's possible low tide might expand the sands to something closer to his memory, but it's equally possible the ensuing fights had done irreparable damage to the shore. Or, perhaps, it had been destroyed on purpose, to cover what had happened.

He can't remember seeing Aifread at all. By the time he'd reached the shore, the encounter had already moved into the trees. That had been when he ran into that malak, Zaveid.

He'd been dressed in Abbey robes, a similar cut to the ones Eizen wears. The main tunic, however, was green: a wind malak.

Eizen had been stunned when the malak addressed him, possessing an agency no other Abbey malak had. He'd yelled at him, berated him, even attacked him at first, thinking Eizen to be another enemy. Eizen can't even say it was an undeserved response, as he too had gone with the classic tactic of punch first, ask questions later.

All was forgiven on both ends at the mention of Aifread.

There hadn't been time to fully wrangle the story out of Zaveid, but the wind malak was emphatic that Aifread had saved him. Whatever Aifread had done had worked a miracle, restoring Zaveid to his proper mind. The man seemed far too impassioned with gratitude to be lying.

Eizen retraces a path carved by fire, fingers coming away black when they brush against the bark of a tree. In his mind, he pictures the arte, bright as the sun, as it burned through the night, nearly melting the two fleeing malakhim.

That's where things begin to turn muddy. How long they fought, who engaged first, little details of when exactly they split up, reunited, split up again. Where the fireball burst is a smattering of lashed branches and sharp walls of rock, twisting the landscape into a surreal kaleidoscope of green and brown. Eizen walks along the stress lines with a slight rush to his step. Still running, even now.

There's a very strong moment he recalls happening - there, where he'd erected a particularly thick wall of earth. He'd pulled Zaveid behind it during the fray, forced the struggling man still with a firm hold to his shoulders. Wide, panicked eyes locked with his.

"Pull yourself together," Eizen had told him, "I need you to do something."

Pressed into Zaveid's hand was a wrinkled patch of fabric that Eizen recognized immediately as the iconic skull and cross of the Aifread Pirates. Two of the edges were frayed badly from being sawed off Aifread's own collar, likely using the very dagger kept hidden at his hip.

 _I'm counting on you,_ is what the captain had allegedly said. Zaveid didn't, and probably still _doesn't_ , realize the full significance of those words. To Eizen, it's the ultimate vouch for Zaveid's reliability. What remained untold of Zaveid's story no longer mattered - the spark Aifread saw, however brief, had earned his utmost respect. And if his captain calls to unfurl the sails, it's not Eizen's place to resist the waves.

"Get to the port," Eizen had said, "Find a ship called the _Van Valvali._ Show them that symbol. They'll keep you safe." He raised his arms, and a prism of ice flooded the clearing, absorbing the impact of another fireball.

"Now get lost," had been his final words to the man, words Eizen mouths along with as he stands amidst the rubble of his stone barricade. He can't remember what, but something eventually reduced it to nothing but a small, cat-sized block, surrounded by piles and piles of stone.

Like they could really find his coin in this mess. Eizen scoffs, upset to find even a small part of him had dared to hope it might have been possible.

"-ey," Rokurou's voice hollers, "Eizennn!" The swordsman enters view between the trees, following the same river of scarred earth. "Don't wander off like that without saying something!"

Eizen hadn't been paying attention. Maybe he should have, considering the geas. Knowing the arte tries to prevent him from stepping out of range gives Eizen a little more relief in where he strays, but maybe he's jumping at the chance for normalcy too soon. Thinking about it, they never did establish its exact range in numbers.

A smarter, more clear-headed Eizen with the power of hindsight, sits on that revelation as it dawns on him how utterly thoughtless that is. Why exactly haven't they done something about that? Sure, it's only been since yesterday they've known Eizen won't suddenly disintegrate without warning, but they haven't had a single conversation on what to do with that information, outside of useless speculation on what purpose it serves for the Abbey. And they'd had all night to bring it up, Eizen is fully aware of how long they'd waxed smalltalk beneath the stars. Once it got out that Eizen belonged to a band of pirates, any thought of sleeping had completely derailed in favor of story after dramatic story, met with shock and awe and sparkling applause for every twist and turn. Whether any of those stories were given an extra flourish or two, only Eizen can say for sure.

Quite a pair of fools they are. Missing the forest for the trees is an understatement with the two of them at the helm.

"Stay here," Eizen says. "I want to try something."

The woods are far from flat, naturally sloping inland. Farther southwest, the incline sharpens into a hillside of brambles and hedges, ending abruptly in a sharp drop to the ocean. It'd be much easier to leave the woods, go out to the road, or even closer along the beach. But Eizen would rather get it over with now. They've wasted too much time beating around the bush, and he wants results.

Eizen turns until he's parallel with the shore, then hurls his mana into the ground. Pulsing out like small earthquakes, a long plate of earth slowly splits the forest in two. Trees and bushes shudder as the arte-made path settles into place, rattling the surface as it forces the ground to make room. As the trembling subsides, a single line of newly formed crust runs along the endless wood, polished clean and mathematically flat. It clashes horribly with the organic shapes on either side, but EIzen couldn’t care less.

He starts to walk at a brisk pace along the line before the shaking fully stops. He wonders if Rokurou's caught on to what he's trying to do. If not, he will once Eizen approaches the limit of the geas.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Rokurou is shouting at him, even louder this time.

"Don't move," Eizen reminds him. "I'm not at the threshold yet." 

Reluctantly, Rokurou retracts his leg from where he'd taken a step forward. Cupping both hands around his mouth, he says, "But what if you're wrong? You gonna walk yourself to death?"

Eizen's not wrong. But he appreciates the concern, sass notwithstanding.

"Guess so," he yells back. "Been nice knowing you."

"That's not funny!"

It is, but Eizen keeps that one to himself. Rokurou won't admit it, but he's anxious. Just as the legate has learned to read body language, so has Eizen. He may not be as honed in the skill, but it's easy to see the way Rokurou fidgets in place, drawing lines in the dirt while constantly looking back to Eizen, as if a moment of lost contact might split them apart. His hands are buried in his pockets, but his shoulders are tense, ready to leap into action should the need arise. That's not the posture of someone who needs relentless teasing.

Without the pesky distractions of such things as blood loss or drowning, Eizen can feel the geas come alive in very acute stages. It starts with a tug in his gut, similar to a bad cramp or a deep-reaching bruise. It presses toward his back with increasing frequency the farther he steps, steadily expanding to the whole of his abdomen.

He hesitates when the pull starts to burn, pressing against him like it wants to burst out of his spine. The ends of his fingers tingle as his blood pressure spikes, cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. This is about how it felt back then, his every primordial instinct telling him to turn back; it's not safe.

Is this the true limit of the arte? What will happen if Eizen keeps going? Is Rokurou right? Will the geas tear him apart, bit by bit, until he's no more than a cloud of mana returned to the earth?

Eizen swallows, mouth dry.

A line of sweat trails down his chin.

He keeps walking.

Stops.

Still safe. But the buzzing in his ears has doubled.

Should he…?

Before he can convince himself elsewise, he takes another -

\- at the same time, Rokurou calls out -

\- and Eizen freezes. To be more accurate, he’s been immobilized. The chill in his spine plummets to glacial levels and his vision tunnels, spell rings flashing in small bursts, staining the trees crimson. His stomach flips with vertigo, and if not for the geas clenching his throat shut, Eizen thinks he might be sick.

The sensation lasts for only a small amount of time, barely a fraction of a second, before the geas goes silent and Eizen drops to his knees, coughing and choking against the dirt. At first, he doesn't understand what happened, but then Rokurou is there, nearly pushing him over with how fast he's coming in, falling to a knee beside him with a hand tightly gripping his shoulder. He must have broken into a sprint as soon as he'd seen the geas activate.

"You deaf moron!" his vessel is yelling now, and there's a raw edge of worry that reminds Eizen how reckless that was. "What about 'hey, stop' don't you get?!"

Spitting against the ground, Eizen looks wearily in his direction. "Excuse me?"

Rokurou goes silent at that answer, stares at him appraisingly. "You were glowing all red and stuff back there," he says, calmer this time. He points a few paces back. "Started really creeping me out, so I said to stop. You did at first, but then you kept going. Why? Was that not enough for you?"

"The farther out I went, the more my senses shut down. My hearing must have gotten worse than I realized." He makes to stand. Rokurou rises with him, knuckles white against his arm. "But I had to find out for myself where the end of this tether lies. Sorry, but even if I had heard you, it wouldn’t have stopped me."

"Cause that's just _your way_ , right?" Rokurou sighs. "Do me a favor? Never do that again."

"No promises, but I can tell you it's not high on my priority list." Anymore.

They rest for a short while to catch their breath, ensuring there aren't any stray side effects. It's hard to say if Eizen had lingered at the edge of the geas, whether he would have been killed or merely incapacitated. Either way, he’s not very keen on finding out. What matters is now they have a hard limit between safe and unsafe. Retracing their steps, Eizen counts approximately one hundred and fifty meters between where he'd collapsed and where Rokurou'd been digging in the dirt. Longer than they expected, but not by much - still a frightfully short leash.

“So, we did what you wanted," Rokurou says as they return to the wreckage, "and knocked at least half a year off my life in the process. Only fair we get to do what I want now, right?"

"I don't recall agreeing to that. What is it you want?"

"Help me look for something strange." Rokurou grins. "Maybe aaaa strange coin from a faraway land? Something an old man might carry around?"

There it is. Eizen brings a hand up to his temple, bites his grin before it stretches too wide. "We were doing that anyway."

"Yeah, but this time I'll have your blessing."

"You don't want my blessing."

"I'll be the judge of that, Mister Reaper."

Eizen shoves him. Rokurou wobbles, but keeps his balance, laughing heartily as he trails south toward the cliffs.

An hour passes this way, turning over stone, peering into brush, kicking charcoal under their heels as they wind through the forest. Eizen only searches with half his heart at best. Coming across Zaveid's pendant was probably the only bit of luck to be found in these woods, but he's too taken in by Rokurou's stubbornness to really put his foot down on the matter.

More than once, Eizen catches himself watching the other instead. Sometimes it's for good reason, drawn by crashes of branches and clipped ferns as Rokurou brandishes his kodachi, clearing away sections of path in the sort of brute force manner only Rokurou would think to try. But a handful of times, nothing is happening; Eizen just finds himself lingering on the way Rokurou moves, curling around trees, rolling over logs, clambering onto branches for a better vantage. So much effort, and for what? A coin Eizen pretends he doesn't care about? Rokurou gets nothing out of this. What motivates him so badly?

The two eventually end up outside the treeline, sitting on the cliffside overlooking the sea. Beneath their palms is light, springy grass, dotted with tiny flowers. Hedging the sides are bigger brushes with large lavender-colored asters, dozens of thin petals layered around a large center pistil. Rokurou picks one, slashing petals off with inhuman precision. One by one, they pirouette through the air, shrinking beyond sight long before they touch the glittering ocean below. This particular stretch of cliff extends out from the shoreline quite a ways, far enough to avoid the shallows. A drop from here would sink down all the way to the deeper waters of the ocean trench.

In his head, he imagines Aifread, cornered by exorcists, sunset blinding at his back, cracking a grin as he takes a running leap off the edge with nothing but wind to cushion his fall. A dramatic thought to entertain, and entirely something Aifread would think to do. Whether it's true or not will probably never be known.

"Ya know, I was really hoping we might find it," Rokurou says next to him, twirling the now barren stem between his fingers. Somehow, the center is still intact. "Dunno why, it was already unlikely, and your curse would only bump it up to impossible. Still…"

"It wasn't a waste, either," Eizen says. "You wanted to do it, so you did. Maybe it didn't go the way you planned; that's life."

"Heh, that's one way to look at it."

"If you let yourself stay stuck in the past, you'll never move forward."

Beams of sun highlight the gold in Rokurou’s skin as he stares out at sea. He breathes in the warm air, and tosses the wrinkled flower bud aside. A replacement soon takes residence in his grasp.

Quietly, he asks, "What if you're so stuck you can't find your way out?" _Slash_. The entire head falls clean off, a delicate corpse clumping in his lap.

Eizen picks his own flower from the brush. Trapped between fingers that could snap bones, the stem feels especially fragile.

"Then," he says, "you fashion yourself a nice pair of fists and bust your way out by force." His eyes flit in Rokurou's direction. "A nice pair of blades, in your case.”

Eizen flings the blossom into the air. Only the lightest whistle of air is heard before the bud crumbles, sliced in half by an unseen, but not unknown, source. Rokurou doesn’t give him an answer in words, but his eyes flare with the intensity of a coal mine burning a decades-long fire. Whatever nerve he’d struck won’t be laid to rest anytime soon, will probably burn for several years to come. For Rokurou’s sake, Eizen hopes the blaze is a cleansing one.

The afternoon wanes, as does their time to be dallying this far from town. They leave an offering of petals and flower stems to the sea, and begin the trek back down to the treeline.

And that’s when they hear it: a distant caw. Unlike the gulls, unlike the crows. More guttural...demonic.

For the second time in these woods, Rokurou grabs at Eizen’s shoulder, this time more from excitement than fear. Eizen follows the other’s line of sight, pointed far above the canopy to where an enormous bird circles overhead. It’s saturated with malevolence, but doesn’t appear to have fully taken the plunge into daemonblight. Animals are not above generating malevolence, the same as all living creatures, malakhim excluded. It is uncommon, but not unheard of, for them to become daemons because of it. Whether the cause is an abundance of malevolence accumulated over time, prolonged contact with humans, or sudden, traumatic events, it matters little. The end result is always the same.

What flies overhead appears to be a type of bowerbird. Cunning tricksters who decorate their dens of courtship with all manner of blue trinkets, who courageously venture into human domains time and time again to forage for yet more cerulean delights. Its sorry state shows exactly the price it’s had to pay, bloated to thrice its size, with claws that could easily twine the belly of a dog, and a long, slithering tail.

Rokurou likely hasn't registered any of that. His fiery gaze only has room for one spot: a glinting, shimmering _something_ secured tightly in its beak.

No. Absolutely not. Deep inside the hell of Eizen’s proverbial coffin, the Reaper is smiling, but Eizen won’t be baited so easily. 

Naturally, Rokurou’s first instinct is to shit all over that sentiment by hurling his kodachi. Bait: bitten, and the Reaper laughs.

The aim is deadly accurate, striking the bird in the center of its chest. A gargled shriek escapes the gaps in its beak, and it turns out that its shimmering something is actually a whole lot of shimmering somethings. A handful of blue baubles and strips of ribbon come raining down with drops of blood, sizzling black with malevolence.

“You’ve done it now,” Eizen warns as the dark energy swirling around the bird multiplies, sparks, then bursts like an eggshell. The newly transformed daemon is quite massive now, its feathers now taking on a resilient, armorlike sheen, densely scaled along the neck and chest. Rokurou’s sword is still stuck fast, but hardly seems to bother the daemon at all anymore. With the heavy beat of its wings, it turns a full set of eyes, five in all, upon the pair.

“I’d say this is your doing more than mine,” Rokurou replies easily, twirling his remaining short blade in his hand. “Thanks for the blessing.”

Eizen chuckles, despite himself. As the bird dives upon them, Eizen queues up a wind arte to stop the beast in its tracks.

What they don’t count on is the bird’s domain ruining that plan. A swarm of feathers forms a cyclone that blasts through Eizen’s spell, momentarily blinding them in a prickly storm. Rokurou’s swipe goes wide, bouncing off the creature’s wing when he meant to go for the neck.

Eizen brings up his chains, winds them around the daemon in familiar golden binds, trapping it prone against the hillside. The daemon struggles, squawking in defiance, as more cloth and frills, jewels and beads, all manner of treasures spew from its mouth.

Rokurou rushes in with Stormhowl now, once more taking aim for a clean decapitation. As the blade strikes the armored lining of feathers, there’s an ear-ringing _clang_ as the steel bounces off, vibrating harshly in Rokurou’s grip. As the bird scrambles harder, screeching on the ground, Rokurou curses, and tries to keep the greatsword from tumbling out of his hands. Eizen throws slabs of earth, ice, and wind at the creature, to no avail - its armor appears impenetrable.

Claws dig into the earth, drawing deep lines down the incline, and the daemon manages to find enough purchase to right itself beneath Eizen’s net of chains. With a single, powerful beat of its wings, another cyclone of feathers shatters its cage in a flurry of magic, nearly knocking both men off their feet.

Eizen casts another wind arte, neutralizing the feather storm long enough to buy Rokurou another chance to sweep in close before the daemon can take to the skies.

Instead of a second crack at the bird’s armor, Rokurou grabs for the hilt of his first kodachi, the blade buried down to the guard in the bird’s flesh. The legate manages to get one good hand on the hilt when the bird jerks upright, standing fully on its legs and nearly wrenching the man’s arm out of its socket. He keeps his grip, however, and with a shower of blood, the kodachi is torn free from the bird’s breast. Wingbeats buffet Rokurou’s balance with several fierce gusts, and in the midst of the takeoff, one of its feet kicks up. Long, sickle-like talons tear a bloody swipe down his face, snapping his chin against his chest with an accompanying grunt of pain.

Rokurou sputters, but rebounds into motion immediately - either the injury is mild, or the man is too pissed to mind. It’s a hard call to make, but Eizen figures as long as Rokurou is still _moving_ , it can be addressed later. To be safe, he casts a quick healing spell, less designed to _heal_ and more to facilitate the body’s natural response.

“Open ‘er up for me, Eizen!” Rokurou yells as the daemon fumbles its way into the air. Rokurou is one step ahead, blades sheathed and already leaping into the trees with monkey-like dexterity.

It takes Eizen more time than it should to realize what harebrained scheme the legate is planning, but once he aligns himself with the proper - the _idiotic_ \- headspace, it becomes obvious. With a crooked smirk, because of course his vessel has to be flashy on top of foolish, Eizen summons his chains again. Instead of spreading them out as a web, he launches them as a single bundled line. Perfectly aimed and with tremendous speed, he slams the hooked ends of his makeshift spear right into the gaping wound left by Rokurou’s kodachi. Once they enter the soft, vulnerable cavity of the beast, _then_ Eizen separates them, and several gaping holes are torn out of its back in a magnificent perforation.

Rokurou leaps from the canopy then, with height to spare and both kodachi drawn. Wind blows his hair back, revealing the lines of blood running down his face as he brings both blades down in a spinning swing at the leftmost wound hugging the crest of the shoulder. Catching the soft inner flesh, the blades tear seamlessly along the guideline Eizen’s drawn. Wet, agonized shrieks escape the struggling beast as the blades sever the spine. When Rokurou’s feet touch the ground, a lake of blood expands around him from two mounds of steaming feathers.

Eizen wrinkles his nose at the corpse, and decides it best to keep his distance and wait for Rokurou to come to him. At first, Rokurou doesn’t move at all. He stares between his swords and the daemon with that same intense gaze from before, now baring a hardened mix of anger and disappointment. Eizen's chest stings with brief crackles of irritation.

Eventually, Rokurou wipes down his blades, and covers the seams with a wide smile.

“That was pretty fun,” he says, “Been dying to try that move out for a while.”

Eizen sighs. There's too much to unpack there, and the thought of doing any of it now, or even in his lifetime, makes Eizen want to fall into the ground and hibernate for the rest of the century.

So instead, he raises his hand and works to close the three jagged tears down Rokurou's face, starting with the ones on his right cheek. They stretch down to his chin in a dripping, bloody mess, barely a finger's width away from hooking his eye. There's a deeper bite in one of his arms, too, along the meat of the forearm where it'd caught one of the talons mid-swipe.

"How do you feel?" he asks. It's a vague question, completely left to Rokurou's interpretation.

Rokurou smears the blood off his face, streaking a thin layer across his nose. No other signs of the cuts remain.

"Good as I can be," he replies, and it's so equally vague Eizen wants to punch him, because how _dare_ he be played for the same game. "It'll be even better if we find what we're looking for!"

 _What_ you're _looking for_ , Eizen silently corrects, but can't deny he's a little excited himself. There may still be something of interest in store for the pirate, even if it only amounts to satisfying the thrill of discovery - and if they _do_ find his coin, well, Eizen never said he wouldn't accept it, just that he had little confidence they’d actually find it. Internal debates aside, Eizen takes no issue in following the exorcist's lead.

A handful of spoils have been soiled by blood, but most of the pile is untouched, save for a spot or two of saliva. Most of the bird's wares are simply junk. Tattered bits of ribbon, metal bottle caps, bits of canvas and string. There are a few lengths of beads and stone pendants that might fetch a handful of gald on the market, but nothing that looks older than a few months at best. Kneading the pile with his boot only reveals more of the same, junk or jewels in flavors of blue or silver. Not a hint of gold to be found.

Well, it was worth a shot. To use his own words, that's life.

He turns to look for Rokurou, who'd been combing the area with sharp eyes, checking the grass and the brush for anything that may have fallen elsewhere in the chaos. Eizen prepares an applause for their efforts, maybe some memorable comment about their noteworthy adventure being far more exciting than anticipated. Something that will nudge his vessel in the direction of port with as little moping as possible.

He finds Rokurou hunched by the daemon's lower half, intently doing something by its feet. Eizen feels another stir of excitement, but it fizzles out as he closes the distance. The legate is untangling something from the leathery wrinkles of the bird's ankle, which means it's not his coin.

"Find something you like?"

"I dunno." Rokurou sits up straighter, back still turned to Eizen. He stares at whatever it is in his hand. "But...I have a feeling you should see this."

Eizen pinches his brow. Unless his coin has magically grown a chain, he has no earthly idea why Rokurou would think to say that. Never mind that Eizen is always unquenchably excited to look at _anything_ he might not have seen before, Rokurou hasn't been around him nearly enough to make that bold of an assumption.

But if Rokurou means what he says literally - which he often does - then his gut reaction might be onto something. His earlier words about attunement echo in his mind. Is it possible -

Eizen takes a kneel at his back. Sitting cross-legged, Rokurou swivels around using his ankles, settling so they're face to face. As he does, everything beyond Eizen's peripheral becomes meaningless.

\- it is.

Staring up at him is the tiny, smiling face of his sister.

The portrait is hand-drawn, and centuries old. It's managed to stay in such pristine condition for so long thanks in part to the cover of the silver pendant it's housed in, and to the diligent, meticulous care of its owner. An owner who hasn't thought of that pendant in months, has refused to even consider its loss for fear of the thousand kilos of guilt crushing him to nothing. To regret his coin is one thing. At the end of the day, it is only a coin, an antique, a memory of a grand adventure. But this is a regret that would linger like a disease in Eizen's heart, growing only darker and hungrier as time ticked on. To lose Edna is to lose a part of Eizen so intrinsic to his peace of mind, he could only tuck the thought away, and pretend it didn't exist.

Edna had made him that pendant, on the same day he had made one for her. Neither had told the other of their plans, making the simultaneous reveal all the more telling to Eizen of how much they meant to each other. There is no replacing such a gift, of the constant reminder that no matter how far his path took him, his sister's love would always find a way to follow.

And now it is here, a little late, a little dented, dirtied, rust flaking off the joint of the chain - but whole.

"Whoa, hey, are you alright?" comes Rokurou's voice suddenly, and Eizen realizes that his mouth is pulled into a grimace, lips curled around clenched teeth. His eyes hurt, they burn with moisture. He's not crying, hasn’t cried in decades, but if he keeps thinking about his sister, so small and so strong, up on that mountain all alone because of his selfishness, he might get damn close.

"Fine," he chews out. "I...this is-" He holds his hand out, afraid to cover the pendant, even with his own palm. He has to keep his eyes on it. Rokurou says nothing more, simply slides it into Eizen's palm, and it's the same familiar weight, the same calming chill of metal _._

Eizen closes his fingers gently around the locket, clasps the front securely over Edna's face.

Rokurou doesn't seem quite sure how to react, offering a confused sort of smile while he waffles between speaking up and staying silent. It pairs nicely with Eizen's own floundering emotions, swollen with fitful downpours of relief, of melancholy, of thankfulness, of a million other complicated feelings, ready to burst.

"This means a lot to me," Eizen finally chokes out. "More than you have any idea."

"O-oh," Rokurou replies. "I guess...that's good?"

That drags a gruff laugh out of him, a dusty skeleton slipping through his teeth. “It is. I was so sure - I didn’t think -” He swallows his jumbled thoughts, until he can say what he actually means. He levels his gaze with Rokurou. “Thank you.”

"Oh," Rokurou says again, more reassured. “Well, I'm glad you were able to find it." The significance of his words doesn't slip by Eizen, even amid his dreamy stupor. ‘You’. Not _I_ , not even _we -_ you.

Eizen doesn't let go of the pendant, even after they wrap up the remains of their business, brushing what they can of the blood and grime out from their clothes. Not exactly a successful endeavor, but they look presentable enough by the end.

Upon return to the sandbar, the tide is high, shrinking the path to such a narrow strip that the waves tickle their ankles as they make a mad dash for the beach. Occasionally, Rokurou's eyes dart in his direction, expecting Eizen to change his mind about walking and return to his vessel. But Eizen doesn't want that. He wants to breathe in the salty air, leave an impact on the earth with every step, relish the cool water lapping at his feet; he wants to revel in this damnable existence of his, feel every moment of this beautiful, chaotic, unforgiving world.

The entire way his heart beats, warm and steady in his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Ortion Rose Tailoring + Saphir: a reference to Tales of the Abyss. :) From that, you can probably guess who his helpers are.
>   * _Van Valvali:_ talking to NPCs around port will reveal the _Van Eltia_ registers under the name _Van Valvali_ , which masquerades as a merchant ship. When docked in Taliesin, one crewmate in particular talks to a small child about how neither seems very impressed by the name. Lol
>   * voyage to Hellawes: according to the game, it takes about a week to travel between Hellawes and Loegres.
>   * juban: a light undergarment that's usually made of cotton, worn under kimono to preserve cleanliness. Rokurou's outer jacket is more like a happi/samue-style working garment than a traditional kimono, but the idea is the same.
>   * beach aster: symbolize patience, wisdom, faith, and love.
>   * bowerbirds: The males build bower dens and litter them with blue objects to attract mates. It’s been recorded that they are not above stealing from each other, either (mostly the young from the old, gg boomer birbs). They’re very neat. :3
> 

> 
> This chapter wound up being twice as long as I predicted, so I cut it in half and that's what this chapter is. :'D Still working on the other half, but hopefully it will be up soon.


	7. What it Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rokurou's final days in Port Zekson are spent on drinks, memories, self-reflection, and some truly unorthodox team bonding.

Rokurou is nine when a boy is executed in front of him.

A beheading or two around the estate is not uncommon. Blades like theirs do not discriminate who passes through: man, woman; young, old; noble, peasant. Reasons aren't often provided, much less with any detail. And why should they? Their lord gives the order, and they mete out the punishment. That's just how it works.

This time is memorable. This time, the traitor has a name.

Gareth hailed from a long line of royal knights with close ties to the count. It wasn’t long before those ties offered him a seat in House Rangetsu. Connections got him through the door, but his skills were what kept him there. Even as a young boy, he was quiet, polite, and insatiably curious. He took his role in the school seriously, and trained hard with the other students day after day.

And Shirou, fourth son to Shigure and starved for wit to match his own, latched onto Gareth with moth-like captivation. Long after lessons, the boys could be seen wandering the grounds, well into the night. Strategizing over meals, playing round after round of shogi, meditating through calligraphy. Gareth had clumsy hands, but a drive to succeed, and Shirou was the most patient Rangetsu still breathing. Together, they worked to smooth out the boy's rough brushwork into steady, beautiful curves. In the peak of summer, when the nights were hot and humid, Rokurou would often return from his evening practice and hear them whispering to each other by candlelight. About tactics, about literature, about poetry, about nothing. He’d find them in the morning with hands blackened by ink sticks, and the floor covered in patterns of art and war.

Now, Shirou moves with heavy, quaking steps. Every muscle is wound tight, and he clasps the handle of his blade with a tangible air of distress. There is beauty in his sadness, an elegance to the curve of his arm. An arc of silver slides through its sheath, painting brief splashes of light against Gareth’s beaten, bloody cheeks. Pain is etched in the soul of the knight’s son as he seems to sag in the dirt, arms bound at his back.

The remaining Rangetsu children are in attendance, stationed at the center of the gathered mass of witnesses. Shigure is inside, her only indication a faint silhouette against a bamboo screen. And yet that alone is enough to instill a cold resolve in all of them for what is to come.

“Watch carefully, Rokurou," Ichirou says, tussling his hair in the exact way Rokurou hates.

Shirou throws something long and thin at Gareth's knees. He circles the boy's back, no more than a vessel guided by his blade. Rokurou has a clear view of his brother’s steeled face, the somber agony in Gareth’s eyes, and the familiar worn bristles of a calligraphy brush abandoned to the earth. Tears now run freely from Gareth, countless unspoken pleas dissolving off his cheeks, but no protest dares pass his lips.

The execution is swift, a small mercy of circumstance. Gareth was charged with treason, and thus denied an honorable death by suicide. Where a tanto might have been offered to cut open his belly, there is instead only a brush, shaming him up to even his last moments of life.

A line of crimson strikes across its handle, and the headless corpse slumps messily to the side. Just another dead man, now. Rokurou does as he's told, and watches as Shirou’s resolve withers. His lower lip creases with grief, and he strains to hold in his voice.

The traitor is carried away in a bundle of mats. Rokurou's eyes are wide, unable to look elsewhere. His heart races for reasons he can't quite untangle, a swarm of hornets trapped in his chest. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

When he wanders the halls that night, he spies Shirou out in the yard. He's clapping his hands together in prayer. Such vulnerability, bowing to whatever gods might lend him an ear, an uncharacteristic act of piousness. Cut open and laid bare, a meager offering to the immortal skies. Rokurou is shocked to realize there is a ribbon of jealousy threaded amidst the pity and the disgrace clamoring at such a display.

Nothing about Shirou is worthy of envy, he tells himself fitfully. Nothing at all.

Two years later, his brother is dead, and it becomes Rokurou who claps his hands together in prayer. Incense dampens the sting of smoke from the burning. Rokurou's never participated in a bone picking before, was too young the last time. The chopsticks he shares with Gorou are too large for his hands, and he drops what used to be Shirou's fingers more than once.

He does not cry. He does not wail. He watches the entirety of his brother's honorable burial with stoicism and silence.

Did that make Shirou weak? Did that make Rokurou strong?

His chest aches, empty of answers, and overflowing with the buzz of hornets.

____

Dinner in Zekson is a raucous evening of reminiscing and chatter.

It's still early when they rendezvous with Eleanor and the siblings at the front of the inn. A short ways down the road is a moderately sized restaurant, with large tables and plenty of ale. Framed paintings and various bobbles hang off walls and shelves without much intent or cohesion. A rusty, barnacled anchor hanging on the back wall, old wooden signs with the paint flaking off, blown glass balls crusted with sea salt, tiny clay statues embedded with bits of quartz. Souvenirs that live and breathe the story of this restaurant, as loudly and proudly as the humans passing through.

There are six chairs at the table. Emboldened by the pendant still clutched in his palm, whose hold hasn’t loosened at all since their chaotic excursion out in the woods, Eizen pulls out the chair in the corner beside his vessel. With the suddenness of a doused lantern, three exorcists turn to him, uncomfortably quiet. He graces each with a look of boredom, casually leaning his elbow over the back of the seat. He can't imagine the theories that must be filling their heads, but he honestly can’t say he cares, either.

Motivated by three parts curiosity, seven parts spite, Eizen addresses them all at once: "So, tell me about yourselves." In the corner of his eye, Rokurou gives him a brief look of concern, but Eizen doesn't pull back on his eagerness.

Maybe a weaker, more doubtful Eizen would stay as they had been, low and safe. But even an Eizen with perfect judgment couldn't say with certainty how useful that would be. There's little to be gained in pretending at this point, and Eizen at his best is still nothing but a blunt, relentless, and especially self-centered asshole, who wades through the sludge while dreaming of the stars, all wrapped in a weave of frankly _awful_ judgment. He’s still riding the high of their adventure, drunk on warmth and sparingly good fortune, putting him in the perfect place to be at his most obnoxious. He's in charge of his own mouth, and he'll damn well speak if he wants to!

Teresa humors him first. She adapts so smoothly Eizen almost wants to suspect ulterior motives, but really, that has more to do with not liking her than any real plausibility. He prods for more - memories, tall tales, no more than casual fare, to test the waters - and Teresa responds with the same chilling precision she applies to all her artes on the battlefield. Her tone is simple, but direct, as though she is speaking to a dog. It’s the kind of tone that conveys the belief Eizen cannot form more than words. Eizen is not human, after all, has no room to understand nuance or complexity in his head. Just an errant pup, pulled along at the whim of his human leash.

The other two soon follow Teresa's lead, shaking off their initial discomfort with at least the outward appearance of ease. Oscar wears a neutral smile, not quite able to comprehend the purpose of a malak taking a seat, much less a meal, in the company of others. Eleanor minimizes her curiosity well, but occasionally peeks his way with the expectation that what she sees one moment may change the next. To her credit, it’s a step up from her behavior the other day. Neither make a fuss or ask questions, and Eizen entertains himself with an argument of whether this is caused by disinterest alone, or if their station forbids even the freedom of challenging what's right in front of them.

As Teresa narrates, Eizen hardly has to do much, between Oscar's lively embellishments, Eleanor's natural intrigue, and Rokurou's frequent interjections. They offer many fond glimpses into those handful of years between the Opening and today, and their detailed regales of hunting, sparring, and mischief-making alone make for an engaging affair across their first round of drinks.

What catches Eizen’s ears most are the stories within the Dragonia estate. He already pieced together that Rokurou lived there for several years, after the Opening fragmented his clan and left the Capalus fiefdom in ruin. Famously, the Dragonia and the Capalus families stand as the two pillars of the royal court, and each herald sizable mansions to the east and west quadrants of Loegres, respectively. It’s not difficult to deduce the possible reasons that would lead the most valuable assets of the Capalus estate to reside within the walls of its rival family. In court, as in piracy, favors don't come cheap, and the debts that change hands that deep in the aristocracy must fetch a very pretty coin.

It’s unclear whether Capalus agreed to the situation as a means of paying a debt, or luring the Dragonias into digging a new one. Unfortunately, Rokurou doesn’t give the impression he’s lent a single thought to anything beyond his own interests, and the siblings aren’t tactless enough to expose the dirt thrown by their own family. A pity, that.

Eizen soaks up what he can, nevertheless. It’s not his intent this evening to squeeze secrets from these people on purpose, but if they happen to drop a pearl or two his way, he’s not going to just let them roll by. He is a pirate, after all.

One such gem eventually slips through the crack in Oscar’s lips, exposing what led both siblings into the arms of the Abbey. Oscar is not the standing heir. Even bleaker, Teresa is not the daughter of the succeeding lady. Hector Dragonia is the middle child, and the eldest son, groomed into a polished gentleman - handsome, charming, intelligent, a seasoned fencer, bowman, spearman, a budding diplomat, and unfairly charismatic - indeed, the perfect heir. Unless something truly unfortunate were to befall him, what use to the family is a softer, more unkempt boy, or a half-blooded, bastard maid? To be used as currency for the Abbey, as a symbol of their family’s loyalty, is as much value as they could hope to hold in their father’s eye. Seen in the right light, it paints an awfully elegant tragedy, the kind of opera rich folk would swarm in droves to see.

"You did _not."_ Eleanor exhales into her hand, as Teresa sighs behind her glass and Oscar mutely covers his mouth.

Being so close in age, Rokurou was initially made to sit in on Hector’s lectures. Did they think the young Rangetsu could offer some healthy competition for their golden child? What regrets must they have had to find Rokurou not only held minimal interest for upper education, but that he came with a hairpin temper to boot? To have mistakes met with ridicule and lashes across the face and hands, it was only a matter of time before something snapped.

"Yeah, probably wasn't the smartest idea," Rokurou says with a laugh, "but it's not like I _did_ anything to the old coot. The way he ran off, you'd think he'd never seen a sword in his life!"

And this is to say nothing of how the trio officially met.

They'd seen each other face to face several times, of course, but an occasional glance or two left little to remember. Eizen can picture their first real encounter far too easily. A young boy practicing swordplay, and a hardheaded, sword-obsessed idiot lured by the thought of a good fight with some fresh blood. Too fresh, it turns out, resulting in a truly one-sided match that left exactly one poor lad bruised and bleeding in the weeds. And who to stumble upon her dear brother but a lowly maid, one who calmly tied up her skirts and challenged Rokurou for her brother’s honor without a second’s hesitation. A fight even more one-sided than the last - but an impressionable one. Rokurou walked away that day with a strong admiration of their grit, and a bizarre sort of connection was born. Ever since, Rokurou would take time out of his day to seek them out, to teach them little things about swords - by, predictably, thrashing young Oscar and riding the thrill of his perseverance - and in turn, maybe a bit unintentionally, letting them teach him little things about not-swords.

Eizen catches Eleanor's bewildered expression over Rokurou's shoulder as the legate smiles into his drink. It echoes his own puzzlement, which is really starting to consider the idea that his vessel is a wholly unique flavor of simpleton. He gives her a somewhat helpless gesture, a brief respite of comradery for the words lost on the man between them.

“Pray tell at least one of you grew up normal?” he asks, and Eleanor turns beet red at the sudden attention. Fruitlessly, she tries to divert the conversation, but a bit of nudging from her companions soon unravels a more humble upbringing down in the southern isles. A bit quieter, a bit calmer, with a far louder heartbeat of communal love. Something much closer to how Eizen would describe a healthy life, and one he relates to far more strongly.

Leaning against his palm, Eizen chews through a heel of bread as Eleanor reminisces quite warmly, and quite sadly if her glistening eyes are any indication, of her mother. In particular, the incredible pengyon dishes she'd always make for her birthday. Stews, roasts, carpaccios, the list goes on. A veritable feast fit for the whole village, a celebration that was always spent with little Eleanor bragging about her mom to all the guests with a wide, brimming smile.

She doesn't speak of what happened between her peaceful life and now, and it's not any of Eizen's business to ask. He gets the familiar impression it's not a tale that ends well. It seems that nowadays, particularly for exorcists, a past without misery is too much to hope for.

"Never had pengyon before," Rokurou says with a mouth stuffed with bread and cured meat. Immediately, Eleanor chastises his poor manners, and Eizen has to fight the amusement off his face as Rokurou quietly chews his food, looking all the part of a cowed child.

"I do know a few of the recipes," Eleanor then says, puffing up with pride. "Tell me when your birthday is, Rokurou, and I'll make you something mind-blowing!"

"Now you're talking my language," he laughs, slouching against the table, loosened by good wine and good company. He looks at Teresa across the table, who is decidedly indulging only in water. "Heh, remember when we gift wrapped all those beetles for _your_ birthday? You were, what, fifteen? That was hilarious."

"No, that was _dreadful_ ," Teresa argues. "You were the worst influence."

"It was _his_ idea!"

"You enabled him, then. Guilty."

"Actually, it was Hector's idea," Oscar manages to slip in. "And, pardon my honesty, but...it _was_ rather enjoyable."

Teresa groans and holds her head in her hand. "Unbelievable, you two."

As cups are refilled and hors d'oeuvres consumed, the stories eventually bleed into shared times at Lothringen. Nights spent out in the field, bunking with royal knights, learning to live and breathe as a unit. Exciting adventures of near death and survival, of teamwork and hope.

Then, a quiche passes by their table, and Eleanor's wrinkled nose sets off Rokurou's chuckles.

"I saw that, Eleanor."

"You saw nothing!" she squeaks, slapping her palms across her cheeks in horror.

Rokurou explains: "All of us-" he pointedly looks at Teresa, who ignores him completely "-well, _some_ of us had to drink saleh'tomah when we had our first big sit down, everyone together. And Eleanor's been holding a grudge against vegetables ever since!"

"You make it sound so much worse like that," Eleanor insists, wringing her hands. "It's not every vegetable, it's _just_ spinach. The way it tastes, how the leaves squish and grit when I chew them! All it does is - _ugh_ \- remind me of saleh'tomah. It's even worse when it's _cooked_. Wasn't it disgusting for you, too?"

"Oh, yeah. Really disgusting. _Really_ disgusting. Not that Oscar would know."

"Now, now-" Oscar tries to say.

"Oscar had no need to endure such an experience," Teresa finally cuts in.

Rokurou snickers, clearly enjoying himself. "Yes, because the rest of us definitely deserved it. Sharing that pain, bringing us closer together. Everyone...except Oscar."

Oscar's eyes narrow, but a widening grin destroys any impression of animosity. "Teresa only commandeered my portion out of concern for my well-being; I hadn't the heart to tell her no. If you wish to take that as a sign I lacked courage, I might have accepted your accusation back then. But not anymore."

In an oddly boyish manner, Oscar places his arm on the table just a hair louder than what would be considered polite, and leans forward. Across from him, Rokurou's grin widens. "If you are trying to insinuate I am somehow less of an exorcist by not participating, I will happily indulge you otherwise."

Rokurou bares his teeth, slams his arm down in a loud show, and leans in to match.

"What'll it be, then? One dose of saleh'tomah would do the trick. But your sister over there took two. It's only fair you match that devotion, right?"

"I wouldn't even wish _one_ dose on _anyone_ ," Eleanor moans.

"Don't feel pressured by Rokurou's infantile games," Teresa tells her brother, "you have proven yourself more than capable time and time again. You're one of the Abbey's top ranked praetor exorcists. No amount of hazing will take away from that accomplishment."

"It's just a plant," Rokurou taunts.

"Rangetsu." Teresa's tone takes on a warning edge.

"Let the boy decide for himself for once," Eizen says, once more drawing the attention of the group. "If you keep leading his life for him, he'll never learn to walk his own path. Ignorance will be his undoing."

Teresa burns with a cold fury at his words, but she is young, barely older than Rokurou. Her rage is but a tiny snowflake compared to the mountainous storm that flurries in someone like Melchior. Eizen eats anger like hers for breakfast.

"Your malak is quite chatty," Oscar remarks, "you'd do well to monitor its behavior."

"As a legate," Rokurou replies coolly, "I see nothing wrong with letting him do what he wants."

"Very well," Oscar relents. "To each his own. In this instance, at least, it presents a valuable argument." He turns to Teresa. "You have been by my side through every trial of my life, and for that, I am grateful. There was no greater boon than to hear your words of comfort in those times. But it is also true I must find my own way, so that I may repay the favor, for you; for Father; for humanity."

Teresa parts her lips, but hesitates, and shakes her head. "I will always be there for you, Oscar. Even if the world crumbles to ruin, I will always come to your aid. You are a star that shines brighter than the sun."

"I pray that I might someday achieve the greatness you see in me," Oscar says. Returning to Rokurou, that youthful spark reignites. "But all journeys must embark with a first step, no matter how small."

"I can't believe this," Eleanor deadpans under her breath.

"No, no, this is great," Rokurou argues, elbowing her cordially. Eleanor answers with a long sigh.

Eizen can't tell whether it's good luck or bad when they flag down their waitress, and it turns out they do happen to have a supply of saleh'tomah on hand, an emergency reserve tucked in the back. A handful of gald and the wink of an exorcist is more than enough for her to return to their table with a glass filled to the brim without question or comment. Forget two doses, there's easily five or six sloshing inside. Not even Eizen would wish that amount on anyone. Well, perhaps he would against Aifread on a particularly callous day, but Aifread is always a special case.

Eleanor plugs her nose with her hand and scoots her chair a good two meters away. Being on Rokurou's other side, she manages to keep a good distance from Oscar without quite leaving the table.

"Your journey doesn't have to start with this, of all things," Teresa tries one last time, cheeks pulling from the pungently sweet aroma.

"It _really_ doesn't," Eleanor adds behind her palm. It's hard to tell from the angle, but her eyes might be watering.

"I am a man of my word." Oscar is comically serious, but Eizen can admire his conviction, if nothing else.

With gusto, Oscar slams the liquid, intent on downing the whole glass. He manages to power through three large mouthfuls before his constitution fails him, and he rips the glass away, choking on the unsavory clash of flavors. Eizen's own mouth curls in secondhand disgust, feeling briefly sorry for the man.

Rokurou, meanwhile, is laughing up a storm, nursing his much nicer drink and patting Oscar's back proudly over the table, even as the exorcist hunches against the grain with a terrible grimace. Eleanor is struggling beside him, quietly shrieking into her palm and miming Oscar's ill facial expressions in a powerful display of empathy. For a brief moment, Eizen feels sorry for her, too.

"Holy shit, you actually went for it!" Rokurou slides water within reach of Oscar's shaking hand. "Bravo, man."

Oscar misses the first few attempts to sip, gags on the first swallow, but eventually manages to wash the rest down. Several breaths later, he cleans his face and sits up, cheeks now blotched with red, eyes wet.

"That," he croaks, "was horrid."

"I'm so sorry, Oscar," Eleanor whimpers.

"I'm sorry, too, Eleanor," he replies. "I had no idea. I should have known better than to think your distaste to be exaggeration." He stares down at the few mouthfuls of saleh'tomah left unconquered with a new glow of respect. "I shall be seeing this in my nightmares."

"At least it's over." Teresa runs circles against her brother's back. "I cannot say this was your smartest decision, but I support that it was yours to make."

"Then it was worth it." Oscar looks Rokurou in the eye. "So, Rokurou. Has our shared bond as fellow exorcists grown stronger? Am I man enough for you now?"

"Buddy, you're man enough for both of us after that."

"Heheh." Oscar smiles, all gentle curves once again. "I have been humbled anew. The Abbey has quite the unorthodox idea of forging resolve, but I do feel different now...I think."

"Throwing this out there: if 'different' turns out to be 'nauseous', vomit that way, not at me? Thanks."

It is at this point their entrees arrive, and Oscar has to excuse himself for several minutes to regain his appetite. Eleanor vacates as well, cheeks somewhat pale, but by the time both young exorcists venture back to properly enjoy their food, conversation has returned to normal.

Throughout the course, Rokurou finds ways to bother Eizen non-verbally. Sometimes he bumps his elbow against him, or prods at his side from under the table. Little things that probably mean to say _hey, I'm looking out for you_ , but to Eizen, read more like _hey, pay attention to me._

It's wholly unnecessary, even a bit stifling. Eventually, Eizen retaliates with a swift chop to Rokurou's side, and the man yelps. Watching him wave off the others' concerns is just entertaining enough for Eizen to dodge any remorse.

By the time the group departs, it's late in the night, and none of them can hide their yawns or their laughter, cracking merry jokes about their trainee days as they meander back to the inn. As little as Eizen cares about the Abbey, it's plain to see that even this high in the ranks, exorcists are still people. They laugh, they form bonds, they feel, and they live, with as much determination as any other human Eizen has met in his long years.

In another life, maybe things could have been different.

"Oh, yeah, Teresa," Rokurou says, words somewhat blurred together. Eizen tries to recall how many glasses he'd drained during their meal. Is he this drunk already?

"Yes?"

Rokurou clumsily wraps an arm around her shoulder, and Teresa stiffens like she wants to throw him to the ground. She leers at him with fierce warning. Oscar and Eleanor share matching faces of surprise, with a hint of unease, watching tensely for Teresa to snap.

"Earlier reminded me - was wonderin' if you had books on arcane artes. Wanna read em."

"Since when did you start taking an interest in artes?"

"Since Melchy got on my case about how much I suckkk."

Teresa grabs onto Rokurou's hand and pries it away from her shoulder in a swift, yet surprisingly gentle motion. An even more unexpected gesture, she places a hand against his shoulder, keeping Rokurou upright, only now at a socially acceptable distance. Despite the glare still adorning her face, there's a softness to her features.

"I'll see if I have anything in my luggage," she says, "but all the proper references are down in the archives."

Rokurou blinks at her slowly, like a cat. "Which one? There're like...a million."

"The lower branch. Where they've always been."

"Ohhyyeah. F'rgot. Ssorry."

Teresa brushes the stray hair out of his face. "You always drink too much," she chides. Rokurou grumbles. "You're a legate now, Rokurou. You need to start acting your age."

Eizen isn't prepared when Teresa suddenly locks eyes with him, and the legate is unceremoniously rolled into his arms.

"Malak," she commands, "see to it that he goes straight to bed. If he insists on drinking anything tonight, let it be water."

Rokurou laughs into his shoulder, and his body leans fully at Eizen's mercy. He's warm, a big bundle of embers burning through the chill of the night's ocean wind.

He throws Teresa a challenging glare. "My name is Eizen. Remember it."

Teresa holds her head high, unafraid. Her gaze bores into Eizen, but again, she is laughably unthreatening to a rogue like him.

"Very well." She turns, where her brother and Eleanor are quietly conversing. They snap to attention immediately, features guilty despite their lack of wrongdoing. "This was a lovely evening. I hope to see you all one last time in the morning. Have a good night, everyone." Her eyes narrow. "Goodnight, Eizen."

He rewards her with his best shit-eating grin. "I agree. A very informative evening. Goodnight, Teresa."

They part ways officially in the hall, some more eager than others for the refuge of their beds. Eizen drags Rokurou's lumbering weight through their door, and stops two steps in.

"Have fun playing the fool?" he asks.

Rokurou's laughter grows into a guttural bellow, and he straightens out of Eizen's arms with a notably flawless balance.

"By the end of the year, Teresa's going to think I need an intervention," he says with complete sobriety. His eyes dance with amusement as he pulls out a chair, reaching for the diamond-patterned bottle of rum. Eizen joins him soon after, a pair of lowball glasses pinched between his fingers. He carries them with one hand, Edna's pendant still glued fast to his other. A simple incantation later, and Rokurou fills their glasses as two conjured balls of ice crackle and splinter within.

The legate leans against his elbow. "So, the lower archives, huh?" he muses. "Teresa wouldn't send us down there unless there was actually something useful."

If Eizen recalls correctly, that had been the archive they'd gone to first. Over a dozen shelves in the far back of the villa, packed with books documenting historical events, theocracy, diseases. Very little regarding artes, and what was there barely scratched the surface of basic formulae.

"Which means there's something we missed," Eizen says.

Rokurou's eyes go distant, face half covered beneath a web of fingers. "Something I wasn't told about."

A pensive silence hangs. Despite its call for unity, the Abbey as an organization is heavily divided, each rank only allowed to know as much as the situation demands. It must sting for someone like Rokurou, who flies the color of Melchior's unit, to be kept in the dark regarding so much of his work.

He clinks his rum against Rokurou's untouched glass, bringing the man out of his brooding.

"A lead is a lead," he says, "and we'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, we drink."

The grin returns, slowly. "Amen to that."

It only takes half the bottle before Rokurou's act from earlier becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Combined lack of sleep from the previous nights has done quite a number to his stamina, leaving Rokurou a grumbling mess laid flat across the table. Red stains his face from the liquor, and Eizen is thankful the man at least had the foresight to leave his jacket and boots at the door.

Heaving him up by the arms, Rokurou makes one last paw for the tumbler, and Eizen bats it away. Drowsiness insistently presses Rokurou's eyes shut, and if Eizen were a lesser man, he'd dump Rokurou over the bed covers without a second thought and call it a day. But he is kind to his vessels, so he spends the extra effort to roll back the linens, ensuring Rokurou makes it beneath them without ending up on the floor.

As he does, Rokurou reaches out and grasps at his sleeve.

"Eizen." Rokurou's words aren't as slurred as before, but there's a heaviness around the consonants that gives them a childish sound.

"Yes?"

"Are we friends?"

"Pardon?" 

"Friends. Are we?"

"Does it matter?"

Rokurou shuffles deeper into the mattress. Hair falls across his eyes. "I guess not."

"I mean that neutrally. Whatever label you decide on doesn't change the nature of our pact - as you put it, we are 'partners'. If you consider us friends, then we are also friends."

Rokurou hums beneath his hair. Eizen braces for malevolence, but the air remains clear.

"I guess that was a stupid question," he says. “Sorry. ‘m kinda drunk. F’real this time.”

Eizen tosses the covers over Rokurou, and the legate vanishes under a cocoon of wool.

"Go to sleep. Think about it tomorrow, when you don’t have piss for brains."

"Yer kinda mean tonight," comes the muffling out of the blankets. Eizen doesn't dignify the comment with any response, and less than a minute later, the lump in the sheets eases into the deep rhythm of slumber.

Eizen wanders back to the table and places his locket on the surface, between the half finished rum and the unopened rice wine. His hand acutely feels its absence in the cool air, silence only broken by the occasional light snore.

Eizen is always hesitant to call someone his friend. Don’t get him wrong, he has plenty of them, and would never forsake their companionship for anything, but there's always a feeling of anxiety that comes with letting new people into his heart. Most just don't understand what they're getting into with him. And even if they do, it's not always easy to accept the consequences. It's the kind of bond that encourages very stupid actions. The kind where a losing outcome might weigh on Eizen more than he'd like.

Rokurou fits that bill well. And as his vessel, the Reaper finds him especially appetizing. Already, the scales are tipped too far.

Eizen traces folds of silver braiding, starting at the base of the locket and trailing all the way down to its broken clasp.

He folds his hands together. He has a lot to think about tonight.

____

A string of yawns interrupts Rokurou as they stumble out of _Ortion Rose_ the following morning. He'd forced himself up early, to catch up on his training. Last night had been fun, but he couldn't live with himself if he started slacking on his nightly routine. One thousand swings today. One thousand more tonight. What isn't accomplished one day must be made up the next. He can't afford to fall further behind.

\- is what he tells himself.

It’s an exercise he's committed to for so long, it's grown into a meditative cycle. Time allotted to slow down, a disciplined melody to empty his thoughts to.

There's a name for that stance: Nothingness.

Swing the sword, focus on the grip, how firm or loose the hands wrap, the way the weight falls along the curve of the thumb, the bend in the fingers. Tighten the abdomen, limber the calves, the shoulders, the elbow. Plant the feet, keep them light. Remember proper breathing, in, out, in - now swing. Again. Again. Again.

Melchior saw that razor sharp focus and honed it, guiding Rokurou with old and wizened hands, hands that have carved scars into the very faces of mountains, hands that have likely helped shape the entirety of Midgand into what it is today. Malevolence is an inevitable factor of life, but there are ways to minimize its creation, to the point where someone like Melchior can commit any deed the Abbey desires with a slate as pure as newly-born malakhim. It’s not just internal remorse that stirs impurity; outward factors and karmic actions can exacerbate its tumultuous presence, debatably more than what can be fostered by a single individual. Rokurou can endure that side of corruption with ease: the calamities, the unsavory tasks, the taking of lives. He was born with that kind of resolve. But he still has trouble with the rampant, volatile emotions that stain him slowly from the inside out. 

A true exorcist will reflect such distractions away from the mind, as light scatters across the still surface of a lake. Become its calm waters, flattened to a smooth and pure essence. The surety of their righteousness becomes an impenetrable defense against the corruption of their human frailty. Reason becomes their only needed truth, and malevolence but a single, miserable fable.

There are many things that waver in Rokourou’s heart that are never quite enough produce malevolence. But the ones that might center around one person. One name. Despite even Melchior’s best efforts, Rokurou’s never been able to fully cut himself away from how Ichirou affects him - how _Shigure_ affects him.

And when the kernels of bitterness and anger, anxiety and exhaustion, grief and jealousy, swell up inside him and threaten to overflow, Rokurou will swing his sword. Swings until he drives the feelings away, or he simply collapses. Either is enough to stop the thinking for a while, until he must drive it away again. And again. And again.

The number hadn't always been so high. Like Oscar, Rokurou's journey began small, with only a handful of swings. With his drive to improve, he swung more, he practiced for longer, and he reached the point where he is now. He's not good enough, and he's never been good enough. But that can change. It has to. He's worked so hard, each and every day. He can’t have gone through so much pain and effort for nothing. He can’t afford to be weak, not when Ichirou is still so far ahead. Someday, Ichirou’s sword will shatter, and it will be under the steel of Rokurou’s victorious grin.

He dreamt about Shirou the other night. He hasn't done that since-

Well. For a long time.

The Opening is still sore for him, for reasons that make him wish he weren’t so full of explosions and stormclouds.

Shirou was soft, like Gorou. Too attached, too protective, too curious. Too many naive, pedestrian things, that left them complacent and vulnerable. That’s why they died so young, so suddenly. Reality does not coddle the weak, as his mother would often say. They perished in combat, fulfilling their duties; they died with their honor. Rokurou has nothing but respect for his brothers, but no amount of respect will change the reality that they are dead.

He knows how Ichirou would see it: a Rangetsu lives by killing. Can a dead Rangetsu, therefore, even be considered a Rangetsu at all?

Rokurou’s met many people across the years. Leaders, exorcists, knights...malakhim. He’s drawn them all in, held their warmth close, in spite of his better judgment. They pull ugly, unpredictable, beautiful things out of him he's never experienced before, thoughts and ideas and emotions he's tasted and gotten himself addicted to without realizing.

 _If you think we're friends, that makes us friends_.

Does he think that? Does he _want_ that? Was getting himself attached to two bratty nobles his first mistake?

Is this the kind of softness that made his brothers too delicate to survive?

He doesn’t want to lose. He _hates_ to lose. But in this situation, he’s not exactly sure what winning means.

One thousand swings.

He hopes he’s made the right decision.

Rokurou glances to Eizen, who's stepping into the early morning light with a jump to his step and a roll in his shoulders. Tiny flexes that relish his new clothes.

Long sleeves cuffed at the wrist, tucked beneath a slimming waistcoat and bolero jacket. Trousers are still loose, but far more appealing to the curve of Eizen's leg, dipping into polished laced boots with a heel that very subtly accentuates his height. Every piece of fabric offers mobility and breath, complementing Eizen's broad shoulders and sharp edges. The Abbey’s classic motif of symmetrical lines, diamonds, and arrows are meticulously threaded into the jacket, but down the spine is a pattern Rokurou doesn't recognize. A row of silver, winged plates that shrink slowly down the back. They're pretty cool looking. Flashy, if nothing else.

According to Saphir, Eizen's intense fussiness presented both a welcome challenge and an endless string of irritations, but in the end he'd been quite taken with the finished product. Looking for himself, Rokurou would be hard pressed to disagree.

Most important, however: pockets. It hadn't been difficult to coerce Saphir in tinkering with the locket, replacing its broken loops with new rings of silver for a promised fee tacked onto their tab. Eizen latches the clasp to the button on his waistcoat, tucking the pendant securely at his side. Gone are the cramped golden wristbands and heavy, baggy fabrics. Teasing the tips of white gloved fingers out of sight at his waist, Eizen releases a heavy breath of satisfaction.

In the wedge of Eizen's arm is a book, nicked from the shelf in their room without a single word. Rokurou decides not to question it. There are only so many things one can do with a book, after all.

Rokurou clutches the object in his pocket, and swallows the curdling in his stomach. He watches Eizen carefully, looking for signs of pain or discomfort. Nothing, so far.

He swallows again. Stubbornly, he balls his hands to quell the tiny shakes they give off, and he tells himself it’s from excitement and not nervousness.

"Lookin’ good," he says with as much cheer as he can muster. A smile helps.

"I must admit, I'm impressed by the quality," Eizen replies, marvelling the subtle embroidery. "Saphir really is something."

"Heh, you can show it off to Teresa before she leaves." The pair head off toward the harbor. Teresa and Oscar’s ship is set to depart soon, and Rokurou still has to give both siblings their farewell gifts.

"I don't think she wants anything to do with me, even as a joke."

"Yeah, right. She'll crush whatever she doesn't like under her heel, but she stepped back for you." Rokurou cocks his head playfully. "You at least earned some kind of respect. Maybe, like, a rivalry?"

"You have the strangest imagination." And yet, mere seconds later: "But if it's a fight she wants, I'll more than meet her halfway."

Laughter echoes between them, followed by a stream of guesses for what could test Eizen's stone cold facade against Teresa's, each proposal becoming more outlandish as they try to outdo the other.

They arrive at port with time to spare. Rokurou meets with Eleanor amidst a growing crowd of exorcists saying goodbyes to their fellows, their families, their spouses. Eleanor holds two parcels in her arms, and together, the trio wander the shipyard searching for their two companions. Rokurou might be projecting, but something about Eleanor looks as glum as he feels. Maybe it's her eyes, they aren't their normal wide-brimmed liveliness. Covertly, he notes the unusual behavior while they walk, and weighs when the right time might be to bring it up.

They stumble upon the siblings on the dock that hugs the starboard side of the ship. As they approach, snippets of quiet conversation can be overheard.

“You remembered to pack your winter clothes, right, Oscar?” Teresa asks. “I’ve read that Gaiburk is being hit with consistently heavier snowfall each season.”

Oscar laughs. “Yes, sister, I remembered. I _do_ keep up to date on world affairs, you know.”

“Yes, but you’re always so focused on your work, you often neglect your own necessities. You need to remember to take care of yourself. When we reach Hellawes, we should buy you some proper coats, just in case.”

“Teresa...”

“Maybe the reason he forgets is because you’re always there to coddle him. Let him freeze a bit, then he’ll always remember.” Rokurou's laughter fizzles when Teresa’s comforting gaze turns icy. "Heyyy, I'm just saying. Nice ribbon, by the way."

Teresa doesn't answer immediately, holding Rokurou at knifepoint with her silence as she weighs which is more tempting: knocking Rokurou down a peg, or leaning into his ploy.

"Oscar gave it to me," she finally says. She shifts to more prominently display her neck. Tied in a simple bow around her collar is a coral blue ribbon. It draws the eye up to her left ear, where a sapphire gem shines droplets of light against her cheek.

"It's lovely," Eleanor says. Rokurou nods his agreement, not trusting his voice to avoid reigniting Teresa's ire.

Both he and Eleanor step forward, pressing their boxes into the siblings' hands. By Eleanor's own admission earlier, when they were navigating the shipyard, Rokurou knows her gift is matching amulets. Aquamarine is said to offer protection at sea. A perfectly Eleanor sort of gift.

Rokurou, meanwhile, gives them matching letter openers. It's perfect, he'd said with exuberance, because they'll be writing each other so often. And in a pinch, it can be used as an emergency blade. Sharpened to a point, each opener has a small decorative guard on the blunt end, so even visually they are reminiscent of tiny swords. His audience of two shook their heads at his flawless taste - a perfectly Rokurou sort of gift, they’d said.

"Thank you,” Oscar gushes with embarrassment. “It will be something to look forward to on these long voyages. My first assignment as patrolling officer is to check on the outer cities of Northgand, starting with Meirchio. From there, I'll slowly work my way to the other regions. Truthfully, I'm quite nervous to be travelling so much all of a sudden, but I'm looking forward to meeting all of the people who live there.”

Oscar and Eleanor continue to converse. Typically, Eleanor is the spitting image of cheer, which makes it off-putting how much gloomier she seems than before. She hides it well behind jokes and warm laughter, but all it does is make Rokurou more acutely aware of it. Oscar asks Eleanor what the matter is, her mood not escaping him either, and Rokurou silently thanks him for taking the initiative. He turns to give them some privacy, but keeps an ear to them just in case.

That's when Eizen steps forward, directly into Teresa’s line of fire. If his state of dress surprises her, nothing shows.

"You look well, Eizen."

"As do you, Teresa."

Sparks fly between them, but not the poetic sort that often lurks between the pages of prosey novellas. They are openly sheathed blades, arrogantly baiting the other to be the first to lower their guard.

"I heard that your malak likes to read. So, here." Eizen presents the book in his arms. "It'd be rude to leave him out."

Pieces slide into place. Rokurou bites his tongue to keep his face neutral. To pilfer a book is one thing. To haul it around all morning for such a petty comeback is a crime he can't help but be proud of.

Teresa leers between Rokurou and his malak, waiting for the joke to spring. But Eizen continues to hold the text, stubborn and terribly serious. Teresa finally clicks her tongue and plucks it out of his grasp with a flat _thank you_. She tucks it away quickly, as though scourged by the sight.

"Please, let me know how he enjoys it," Eizen says, dripping with smug cheer. "Tell me what he likes, any questions he has. I look forward to reading about them in your future letters."

Now Rokurou flinches under Teresa's eye. The tone of her writing tends to lean more toward field report than personal letter, and he has the feeling her first sylphjay to him will spare no quarter for his character.

"Noted," Teresa says.

A horn blares through the shipyard. The timing is good, as it diffuses the impending disaster building from either stubborn blond. 

“I suppose that’s our signal to board," Oscar says. With one hand securing his shoulder pack, Oscar uses his free hand to rest comfortingly on Eleanor’s shoulder. “If you ever need to talk, I’m just a sylphjay away.”

Eleanor averts her eyes a little, hands making small twisting knots behind her back. “Thanks. Sorry. I have a lot on my mind today, is all. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine."

Oscar doesn’t seem quite convinced, but he smiles nonetheless. “Well, the offer always stands. I'll miss you, Eleanor.”

She perks up a little at the gesture. "I'll miss you, too. Be safe, both of you."

Having said their goodbyes, the siblings soon melt into the bustling line of exorcists. The trio left on the dock look on as the ship sets sail with two long blares of the horn. Watching the crew barking orders and rushing about, several dozen hands working together to unfurl the sails, raise anchor, set course, has Rokurou wondering if this is what Eizen used to do, before he wound up stuck with him.

He turns to Eleanor. They don't need to return to Loegres together by any means, but travel always loves company. Eleanor still seems downcast, but musters up her energy to answer with a smile. She retires to the inn shortly after, intent on taking time to herself before they reconvene in a few hours. Rokurou only has one errand left on his agenda, so it works out perfect for him.

Technically, his one errand doesn't even involve him.

"This shouldn't take long," Eizen tells him before scampering off. Rokurou loiters at the corner of a storehouse, doing his best to pretend he's looking elsewhere when every cell in his body is brimming with the urge to do the exact opposite.

Eizen's connection is tied to one of the many merchant guilds, under whom the _Van Eltia_ has always been able to berth with complete anonymity. Considering some of the more dubious shades of business they deal in, approaching as a stranger _and_ an exorcist would be unwise.

"But you look like an exorcist yourself," Rokurou had pointed out. "Will he trust you?"

"He will. We're well acquainted. But even if I wasn't, he's known the Aifread crew for far longer. He knows we're all ride or die regardless what colors we don."

By the time Eizen returns, Rokurou is restless, gone back to rolling around the object in his pocket. The malak is holding a weathered parchment in his hands, folded crisp with the seal unbroken. The contact hadn't questioned Eizen's loyalty for even a moment, and seemed genuinely at ease to see him alive and in one piece.

"Don't get the wrong idea, he's a businessman first and foremost," Eizen clarifies, "but he understands the value of a good client." The letter taps against his elbow for emphasis. "Is there anything else you need to take care of? I'd like to take the time to read this before we leave, if possible."

The buzzing of jealousy and uncertainty tangles in Rokurou's throat, and it makes him want to scream.

"Yeah, actually." Abruptly, he thrusts his arm out. "Here."

He's been holding onto it since yesterday. A bracelet that had caught his eye back in the marketplace, with a base of dark matte black and beads of noble green, polished to a smooth, scaly shine.

"It's serpentine." He's not sure why he says it, but he imagines that Eizen would appreciate being informed.

Eizen holds the bracelet up, the initial shock fading rapidly into fascination.

"You did your homework." Rokurou stamps down his inner child, who hears words of minor, throwaway praise and yearns to squeeze his hands around them. "This was formed in the sea, at the subduction zone between the oceanic and continental lithospheres. The minerals are heavily attuned to water, which makes this an ideal conduit for an earth malak."

"It's way less impressive when you say it like that."

"I disagree. Understanding _why_ something makes you stronger is far better than simply being told that it does." Eizen slips the bangle on his left wrist, flexing the joint to test its fit. "But I have a hunch you did this for more than just strength."

Rokurou rests his hands on his hips, and breathes in deep. His head is stuffy and warm. "Because we're friends," he says.

Eizen doesn't respond at first, but soon a wry smile slides across his cheeks. "And you decided that all for yourself?" he teases.

"I did!" And it's a bit underwhelming how easy it was. Nothing feels any different, no ah-ha moment to accompany the announcement. The only reward for Rokurou is Eizen's laughter, and the sparkle of serpentine hugging his wrist.

That, he supposes, isn't exactly a bad thing.

____

There is a surprise for Rokurou when they return to the inn. The clerk attending the front desk calls him over, and presents him a rectangular package wrapped in leather. A single narrow belt holds the leathers snug, and tucked beneath the clasp is a small fold of paper. He recognizes the presentation even before the attendant confirms his suspicions. He must have just missed Teresa when she knocked on his door this morning. The attendant assures him that they'd kept the package safe and sound at her request, and Rokurou tosses a few gald their way as thanks.

Behind safer doors, Rokurou collapses on the bed, while Eizen takes a seat at the table. There is the metal tap of leather sliding through buckles, and across the room, the dry pop of wax being broken. Then, the fluttering of paper.

Teresa used to give him books in this manner all the time, to last the long seasons training away from the estate. Sealed leathers are resilient, waterproof, and latch easily to all manner of bags, belts, and harnesses. It had started as an effort on her part to _straighten him out_ , thinking he made poor company for her studious brother (and boy, was she right). Rokurou has been known on an occasion or two to read, and after being schooled by Teresa for several months, has even been told he has some worthwhile opinions once in a great, great, great while. He ignored her attempts at first, throwing the books in the fire or using them for target practice. So she struck him a deal. He'd put forth the token effort of reading if, in turn, she turned a blind eye to any commotions in the kitchens late at night. And if a bit of wine disappeared once in a waxing moon, well, that was merely coincidence.

At first, the books were academic, and a pain in the ass to slog through. But then the other maids caught wind of their arrangement, and every now and then his texts would suddenly swerve into lighter, prettier affairs, ones he most definitely read solely out of obligation and no other reason. Dramatic family feuds, windswept romances, princesses and fairy tales, dragons and knights. For all his loud and unruly protests, all it ever did was encourage more to be sent his way. What seemed to be the entire serving staff would needle him about it whenever he passed by, and they would scamper away in good fun when he’d inevitably turn his swords on them, embarrassment finally giving way to anger.

Inside the folded paper is a message similar to many that had come before: Rokurou is expected to read every word. There will be a quiz included in the next letter. Take care.

There’s a knot in his stomach that might be nostalgia, tugging for the old days spent in the frosty north, reading stories of romance by the fire while he pressed snow against his bruises. Or it might instead be the disgraceful realization that there were more facets of love in his life than he at first perceived. Ichirou always ridiculed him for focusing too hard on a single move. Rokurou would decide on it before the match even began, and lose himself in figuring out how to make it work. He'd miss other opportunities, and leave himself open to attacks long before he could even start his. Had he blinded himself so easily to this as well? Years of neglected warmth smother his heart as his fingers wrinkle the note, breath fluttering in his lungs with a familiar, aching buzz.

He’s a bit older than he was back then, but he thinks he gets it now. What could make him envious of someone like Shirou, even after he'd been driven to such a low point. It’s a sobering achievement.

He pulls out a book much thinner than the wraps would imply. As promised, it's a short text on arcane theory and practice, shockingly written in a language he understands. Being far more talented than him in ancient tongues, it wouldn't have been surprising for Teresa to give him something in Avarost.

He cracks open the cover and reads the first few words on the page. Already, he feels his attention begin to drift. Nice to see nothing has changed in this regard, at least.

He peers at Eizen over the cover. "Don't suppose you wanna read this first?"

"You're the exorcist, here. That’s your job." Eizen traces the lines of his own letter without even a glance up.

"But what if I have questions?"

"How will you know you have them if you don't put in the work to find out?" Eizen squints at the page, reaches across the table for a bottle of ink. "You're the student of a master sorcerer. Frankly, you should know more than me."

Rokurou grimaces. "Prepare for utter disappointment."

"Trust me, I'm always prepared for that," Eizen says jovially. "Now do something useful and toss me that quill."

____

Before leaving the cobbled streets of Zekson behind, Eizen passes a sealed response back to the contact. Should the _Van Eltia_ ever return to port, it will let everyone know he’s still kicking around. He hasn’t forgotten the flag he fights for.

It’s late when they finally reach the outer walls of the capital. Even with the horses well rested and eager to ride, they’re in no hurry to make it back. The trek is companionable and serene, broken by handfuls of stray thoughts that only occasionally snowball into proper conversation. Eizen has little idea or care about what the humans are talking about. Unless something starts attacking them, he’s too preoccupied to pay them any mind.

Aifread is alive. Not only is he alive, he’s back aboard the ship. Well, shit. Next, Eizen will hear the Reaper’s Curse can be broken if he just drinks enough booze. He’s pinched himself several times, and still can’t fully convince himself he’s even alive right now.

He examined every word and every fold of the letter. It was written in the code of the Aifread Pirates, in the captain’s own handwriting, sealed with the signet ring locked in the desk of the captain’s quarters, and kept secure by a trusted contact. There’s so little chance of subterfuge, the only doubt he can muster for the validity of the letter is in the face value of the words themselves. And knowing exactly whose writing he’s looking at makes it difficult to question any of them.

The only part that sticks out is an offhand comment near the end that suggests the crew will be laying extra low, to shake the Abbey off their trail. Makes sense, and lines up well with their sudden scarcity in the neighboring ports. Aifread has a tendency for thinking aloud in his letters, and the one idea he seems particularly taken with is a detour back to the far continent. It’s a clever idea, no less than what he'd expect from the unorthodox man. Somewhere far enough where the Abbey wouldn’t spend the resources to follow, but familiar enough not to kill the whole crew along the way. Without Eizen aboard, their chances for survival are probably tripled, at least.

Thinking it over, Eizen realizes what he's feeling is mostly just pettiness. His comrades are off on another grand adventure across the sea, and they have the audacity to tell him in a letter that they’re doing it without him. How inconsiderate. He hasn't felt this scorned in a long time.

He flips a piece of gald as he leans against the livery gate, waiting for his vessel to return from the storehouse. One of the horses hovers nearby, perhaps hoping Eizen might be hiding some sugar cubes in his pockets as well. As he continues to flip, he gives the steed a pat on the muzzle. Suddenly uninterested without the prospect of food, the horse shakes its head and trots off to join its fellows.

First his pendant, and now Aifread. His string of good fortune is starting to tread that line between sweet dream and lucid nightmare, making him both giddy and terrified of what this bodes for the future. Wisps of worry twist in his stomach, and Eizen is tempted to fall back into his vessel just to nag at him to hurry up. The surest cure for anxiety is a bottle of whiskey on rocks, and what good is he doing standing around when they could be getting the best drinks in the capital?

Thankfully, Rokurou drifts out of the stable shed then, brushing stray hay fibers off the cuffs of his robe. Eleanor is not far behind, untangling bits from her hair.

“That sounds like Oscar,” Eleanor is saying.

“You should have been there to see him,” Rokourou replies. “They had us practice the whole day, and he stepped on every single girl. He was so red by the end of it, I thought he was gonna faint.”

"But you were only kids, right? That's not surprising." Taking hold of his sleeve, Eleanor rustles the remaining fibers into the air. She gives him a knowing look. "You probably stepped on every girl too, didn't you?"

"Never." Rokurou holds his stern face for exactly three seconds before it breaks from his laughter. "Okay. I stepped on a couple. Don't tell Ichirou that. I'm the better fighter, _and_ the better dancer, got it?"

"Naturally."

It's a short walk from the stables to the villa. Many exorcists have migrated out of the capital in the last week, being called out to other assignments, but there's still quite a presence in the city. Streams of people wander in and out of the royal courtyard, and Eizen lets his gaze fall on as many faces as he can searching for draconic helmets. As expected, there aren't many.

Eleanor asks them what's next. Whatever Melchior has next on his agenda, surely. Eizen has no idea when they’re due to report, but he leaves that sort of timing to Rokurou, who merely leans to the side with a laugh and dismisses the details. Who knows, he says, maybe they’ll slack off another day and go out training in the fields. That attracts a look from Eleanor, and he quickly takes back the joke, but a part of Eizen wonders if it was even a joke in the first place.

How did someone like this become a legate?

Eleanor, meanwhile, is going to dig deeper into the deployment records, to find clues about the skirmishes out on the beach. Even if she finds something, it’s unlikely it will be useful in the long-run, but maybe all Eleanor’s interested in is satisfying her curiosity. Eizen’s gone to great, reckless, downright asinine lengths himself to find answers to solely recreational questions, so with that in mind, he wishes her search well. It’s cute the way her face lights up from the encouragement, makes his fingers itch to pat her on the head. Would she huff and shake her whole body in stubbornness, like Edna used to?

“Oh, that is you, Eleanor!” An exorcist makes a beeline for them. Judging by the extra flourishes on their helmet and uniform, they’re a praetor. Recognizing Rokurou, they salute with acknowledgement, but give Eleanor their full focus. “You received the summons this morning for your deployment, yes? We weren’t expecting you until later, but if you’d like, we can go over the details of your assignment now.”

“O-of course! Just a moment.”

“Certainly.”

Rokurou gives her a face fit for a proud parent. "Lookit you, Eleanor, growing up being all important!"

Cherry red, Eleanor brings her hands across her face. "N-not at all! Everyone here is doing what they can. I’m no more important than anyone else!"

Rokurou observes her carefully. "If you say so." Raising his hand, he bids farewell along with a short, playful wave.

Eleanor only makes it a few steps away before pausing. "Oh, I almost forgot," she says, hurriedly digging into one of the pouches in her bag. "Here!"

A paper bag is placed in Rokurou's outstretched hand, unlabelled and quite ordinary. Rokurou pries open the top to peer inside.

"It’s red chamomile tea." Eleanor offers a wide, beaming grin. "It actually wasn't as hard to find as I thought it'd be."

Rokurou falls into stunned silence, and it's the most unguarded Eizen has ever seen him. In an instant, he suddenly seems terribly young, eyes wide and uncertain as he looks at the herbs, then back to the exorcist radiating kindness like a fatal weapon.

“How much was this?” he asks. “I’ll pay you bac-”

"It's a _gift_ , Rokurou!" Eleanor crosses her arms.

“But-”

"Just promise me you’ll try it next time you have trouble sleeping. Does that sound fair to you?”

A bit of pink peppers Rokurou’s cheeks, just under the fringe of his hair. “No, not even remotely.” Nevertheless, the hand that had been rooting around for his own coin purse retreats to his side. He grips the bag with both palms, stares at its bland crinkled paper like it's worth more than all the alcohol in the world. “But I guess that is the point of a gift, isn’t it? Thank you, Eleanor. I promise to give it a try.”

“You see? Now, was that so hard?” They grin hard at each other, just two simple kids stumbling through the day to day.

As Eleanor is led away by the other praetor, Eizen peers over Rokurou’s shoulder. There’s actually quite a bit there, and judging from the vibrancy of the leaves and the visual texture of the press, they appear to be of good quality. It can’t have been cheap.

Rokurou catches him peeking, and gives him a dopey grin. “It’s my gift. Hands off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eizen says as they begin their hike up the stairwell. Rokurou smiles the whole way, shuffles the bag here and there and everywhere with the sort of reverence usually reserved for rare, decadent indulgences. Something most civilians wouldn’t experience from a simple gift between friends, but to Rokurou, must feel hugely significant.

Eizen thinks back to their conversation last night, tries to recall how Rokurou reacted to the idea of a birthday meal. Malakhim don’t really celebrate their births, being so long-lived that one year is but a drop in the bucket. It’s far more rewarding to celebrate anniversaries of a different sort, the bonds between themselves and others, of love, of life. That sort of thing.

All Eizen can recall of their dinner is Eleanor’s promise, but he’s certain her words left some sort of impact. Do members of the Rangetsu clan even celebrate birthdays? Do they celebrate anything? Rokurou never did divulge when his birthday was during the conversation, but Eleanor will no doubt ask him about it eventually. If Rokurou is this ecstatic over tea, imagine the look on his face to be spoiled for an entire day. Thinking about it tugs at Eizen’s mouth, and he pretends to rub at the corners to stop it. Not that he really needs to, Rokurou isn’t paying him much attention at all.

If their luck holds up, perhaps Eizen will be around to witness such an occasion.

They reach a familiar room at the end of the hall, neighbored by dozens of identical wooden doors. But something about theirs must have seemed out of place, because Rokurou takes one good look at it and stops cold.

"Eizen."

"What?"

"Hold this for me." And there's ice in his words. There's brimstone in his eyes. The air in the hallway drops several degrees, and Eizen wordlessly takes the bag of chamomile as he watches the man before him start to look a little less human. Rokurou gives him a grin that snakes across his teeth. "Thanks."

Before Eizen can even get a word out, Rokurou is grabbing for Stormhowl, bringing up his boot, and kicking the door in, which Eizen is now realizing hadn't quite been closed, as it slams open without the slightest snap of a lock breaking.

Rokurou flies, sword arcing, screaming into the room, _"Ichirou!"_

And, Eizen thinks to himself, this is when his good fortune ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Gareth: King Arthur’s nephew, son of King Lot and Morgause, and brother to Sir Gawain.
>   * Thinking about the elemental alignments in Berseria, it’s kinda wild that Eizen can’t swim when earth malakhim are naturally supposed to be dominant over water. Lol 
> 

> 
> Fun fact, when I first looked at the Zekson plot points in my notes, my first thought was "Oh, this will be the short chapter". It...it was not. It was not the short chapter. I played myself. I'm sorry. orz


	8. A Fleeting Heaviness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentimentality is an oft-ignored concept in House Rangetsu, but there is one name that Ichirou won't allow himself to forget. As the evening wanes, Eizen begins to crack the surface of just how deep everything goes.

"You almost lost today."

"Not even close. Saburou got lucky, that's all. He didn't even really hit me."

"But if he had, you would be just as disappointed, wouldn't you? I've never seen him strike you. That's still true, isn’t it?"

Ichirou scoffs, settling next to his younger brother between the gap in the dividers. Their legs dangle off the sides, not quite tall enough to touch the ground. He shuffles the edge of his kimono off his shoulders. It's nearing the end of fall, when the winds start to bite and the rains fall like arrows, but Ichirou has always found comfort in the cold.

"Yeah, well, what do you know," he grumbles.

"Enough not to get involved," Jirou Rangetsu confesses, closing the book in his lap. Some old, dusty thing that looks like it came from the storehouse. Poetry, most like. Ichirou doesn't get what's so fascinating about it. "You and Saburou can butcher each other to your heart's content."

"But not you." Ichirou injects as much aggravation as he can into the words. He knows what the response will be, and he'll take any opportunity to tell his brother exactly what he thinks about it.

"Not me."

"Coward."

"You’re free to see it that way." Jirou smiles. "But I bid you look through my eyes. You've done nothing but flatten me since day one. And _Saburou…_ " The statement hangs, but to be honest, that's all that needs to be said.

Jirou reaches to his right and pulls a bottle of sake from its hiding place beneath the folds of his haori. He fills his cup, then hands the bottle to Ichirou, and the two sip in earnest.

"I'm no fool, Ichirou. I know my limits."

"We don't have limits."

"Maybe you don't, but you've always been a brute." Ichirou scoffs again, but can't deny he takes pride in the accusation. "My blade is sufficient; don't think I've grown dull. But trying to gain the upper hand against the two of you will only end poorly. I don't need to lead the clan to fulfill my duty."

"You wouldn't, because I'm going to lead the clan." Ichirou tosses back a mouthful of wine. "But you could get close, if you really wanted to. You weren't always this weak."

"And you weren't always this short of temper. Saburou molds you so easily in my absence, dear brother."

The floorboards groan as Ichirou stomps to his feet in anger, taking on a presence much larger than that of a mere teenager.

"Enough pretty words, Jirou. If you got something to say to me, say it with your blade."

Jirou admires the bit of pine that's fallen in his cup with a diviner's eye. "No, I don't think I will," he says. "You remind me of the young lord, is all. He's growing into something of a ruffian compared to the crown prince. If I may speak freely, my liege often struggles to keep sight of his goals. He grows careless, irresponsible." Jirou's tone turns ever so slightly accusatory as he stares Ichirou in the eye. "I wonder if he's capable of accomplishing anything at this rate."

Ichirou steams, grinding his teeth to keep from taking such an obvious trick. "You go blind? You think I'm some weak royal brat?"

"Are you not? Prove me wrong then, Ichirou."

Ichirou wants to bring up his foot and smash it into Jirou's jaw. He wants to take his blade, taller than he is, and carve the insults out of the boy's throat, viciously spread them out in the yard to be picked at by the birds.

But he doesn't. Jirou has always had this way about him, this calm eloquence that commands respect, even from others much older than him. It's angering, because it means Jirou will never take his bait, never try to rise up and challenge him. Saburou is a loose cannon, so much easier to rile and push around. It's more fun to triumph over someone who hits back.

Since Jirou was first called to the capital, he’s hardly even around anymore, too busy babysitting some miscreant prince in a castle. With every visit, sparser than the last, all Ichirou sees in his brother is a swollen head, talk full of fancy etiquette and weird ideas. If anything, it is Jirou who has forgotten, has let the city muddle him all over. Where does he get off telling Ichirou, the _older sibling_ , what's best for him?

"When I'm Shigure, you'll regret those words, _brother_ ," he sneers. He briskly takes his exit, shoulders squared, the bottle of sake obstinately kept in his grasp.

Jirou doesn't respond. Halfway down the hall, Ichirou can't help but look back, incensed. There is nothing but serenity as Jirou takes in the faded scent of the dogwood, finishing his lone cup of rice wine as fallen leaves continue to drift.

A young voice hollers through the courtyard, and little Shirou comes toddling up to his brother. Not to Ichirou, of course not. Shirou is young, not quite of sparring age, but he's seen enough of the firstborn son to be intimidated. Good. Ichirou should be feared. He's the strongest, destined to head the whole house someday.

"Will you play shogi with me again?" Shirou pleads.

"Of course," Jirou says, and lets the young boy lead him away.

"Your general is mine today!" Shirou declares with excitement. "I've been practicing. My strategy is foolproof!"

Shirou will lose. Not just because Jirou is better learned and more experienced, but because Shirou's priorities are strangled at their root. If all he's focused on is the general, how can he hope to take the king? Ichirou makes a face at the cracks in his family, and saunters further into the darkness of the house.

When Shirou turns nine, either himself or Saburou will give him a good beating. Maybe then he'll start aiming a little higher.

____

_"Ichirou!"_

"Bout time you got here. You're late."

"Don't give me that shit!"

Eizen races into the inner chamber of the room just as Rokurou is slamming Stormhowl down a second time, grinding against the drawn blade of a man bearing a striking resemblance. Ichirou Rangetsu, Eizen presumes. With an ear-ringing screech, the massive weapons are knocked aside, and Rokurou furiously brings his back up for another swipe.

Ichirou is wild, ecstatic, grinning like a wolf as he parries each swing, dancing between chairs and leaping atop tables as though the two are merely shaking hands.

"How many times have I told you to _stop doing this?"_ Rokurou goes for a forward thrust. It misses, and part of a curtain is torn clean off its rung.

"If you don't want me dropping in, change the lock."

Another slash, blocked. In a quick burst, Ichirou swings his mighty greatsword up with a single hand, and Rokurou is somersaulted across the room. He manages a shaky three point landing, but his shoulder knocks gracelessly against the armoire. Several decorative gold figures fall to the stone floor as the heavy frame shivers in place, though the likelihood of Rokurou having the presence of mind to care is slim.

The younger Rangetsu rises to his feet, sword still gripped menacingly in his hands. For now, at least, he remains where he is, immediate rage quieting to a low simmer.

"How did you even get a key?"

His brother shrugs. "Ask the right fairies, they'll drop the right bones." With a tinny jingle, Ichirou briefly twirls a ring of skeleton keys around his finger, teasing a low growl from the other legate.

"Why are you _always_ pulling shit like this?"

"Come on, like you aren't happy to see me."

"I'm _not!"_

"My, they are rambunctious today,” says a pleasant voice, somewhere by Eizen's knee. He looks to find a great white cat, with large mossy eyes and two distinct marks across the forehead that remind him of eyebrows. Ichirou's malak.

"I take it this happens often?" Eizen crosses his arms as the malak's domain brushes up against him, a calm and rhythmic bubble of mana. He lets its influence trickle in and mingle with his, gauging the other as one would a book jacket. Benevolent energy radiates from the feline, making it clear that the only danger present is his own vessel. Eizen takes a deep breath, and tries to rein in his nerves.

"Oh, certainly. They're young, after all. So full of energy." The malak, seemingly satisfied with Eizen's introduction, pads forward, back paws disappearing beneath a cloud of fur. "Ichirou, dear, don't be so impolite. Come introduce yourself."

Ichirou stops mid-word. In the time it takes Eizen to blink, the greatsword is back in its sheath and the man is fast approaching. It's uncannily similar to the whiplash Rokurou's rapid mood shifts tend to cause. One is already too much. Two is a headache Eizen doesn't believe he deserves being punished with.

"Yeah, yeah," Ichirou says gruffly, ignoring the way Rokurou bristles by the armoire. A hand is offered to Eizen. "Hey. Ichirou Rangetsu. That there is Morgrim."

"Eizen." Ichirou's grip is crushing. Eizen matches it with a hold only proper for an earth malak, and they shake tensely, like two mountains colliding. While he doesn't feel any animosity in Ichirou, there is an intense, feral hunger that makes the hairs on his arm stand. Rokurou is just a cub, he now sees. Ichirou is the grown lion. "Been waiting long?"

"A day at least, but hey, who's counting?"

Rokurou's sword locks into its sheath with a rough, almost petulant sort of clang. He edges toward them with a turtled hunch in his back, frown cutting deep into his jaw.

"Sure as hell didn't miss _this_ at Lothringen," he grumbles. Louder, more expectantly, "Did you at least bring it?"

"I did. Can you say _please?"_

"Fuck off."

Ichirou bellows with laughter. With the rough pad of his palm, he rubs mats into Rokurou's hair with what Eizen might hesitantly call affection. Attempts to dislodge the hand only cause it to escalate into a headlock, Ichirou's knuckles burrowing into the scalp. Rokurou spits several strings of curses, nails biting into his brother’s arm in a vain attempt to retaliate. Nothing says siblings must be close, but their relationship is peculiar, and frustrating. Neither would be Eizen's first, second, or hundredth choice for a sibling, and it leaves a bad taste on his tongue to even entertain the idea. If anyone dared to lay a hand on Edna in such a manner, Eizen would break it off.

A soft series of taps interrupts. Through the opening of the hacked curtain is a sylphjay, grooming its wings as it perches dutifully on the sill. The jays that surf alongside the _Van Eltia_ are round and cloud-white, but this breed is larger, sleeker, with a dark speckled plumage and a long slender neck. Tied to its leg is a tiny message capsule.

“Ah. Aonbharr,” Ichirou says, a hint of tired recognition buried beneath the bravado.

Rokurou says nothing, but the read of the room dampens significantly. Antics now forgotten, his vessel slips easily out of Ichirou's hold, each step taken with the care of broken glass. Unhooking the latch, the bird hops inside and nips at Rokurou’s fingers. Gently running his hands along the soft feathers of the head, Rokurou locks the window shut.

As he works to untie the capsule, Ichirou pulls out a bottle. From where, exactly, Hyanoa only knows. The man is half dressed at best, with clothes that don't exactly have secrets to hide.

The brothers take their vendetta to the table, seamlessly falling back into petty bickering. This time, thankfully, without the hassle of two giant swords. Eizen follows the curve of the forgotten curtain splayed out on the floor, to a small wedge carved out of its wood frame. Morgrim hums a cozy sound as she brushes past, a round mass of fur against his leg. Leaping with ease atop the table, she settles near the edge against Ichirou's elbow. Sharp eyes follow the sylphjay as it perches atop the bedpost, cooing in light distress.

Eizen shakes his head. When in Loegres, he figures. Silently, though not happily, he makes his way to the others, scraping his chair against the floor.

____

Jirou's next visit home only takes him as far as the lord's estate. Had Ichirou not been accompanying Shigure on business, he never would have known his brother was passing through. There, Ichirou finally meets the young prince he's attached himself to.

He's second in line to the throne, just shy of twelve. Somehow, this brat has more status in his little finger than the whole of Ichirou's family combined, and watching him gallop around the estate without a hint of awareness makes Ichirou bite down hard to keep from saying something shameful.

It makes perfect sense in that child’s world. What use does a prince have for self defense, when that is what Jirou is for? Adversity is but one facet of a crown's diamond, even one as beloved as the crown of Asgard, but it's doubtful any of his sons have known real hardship. At most, a shallow cut from a letter opener, or perhaps a burn from a hot bowl of soup. The young prince's hands are smooth, clean of hard labor. A fattened little rabbit complacent in its warren.

Fat needs to be trimmed. Shigure would never allow her children such leniency.

It makes Ichirou fume. A restless volcano, blowing waves of ash into the sky.

"Fight me, Jirou," he says brazenly, patting the sword beside him. Both brothers are in the peak of their growth spurt, nearly as tall as their blades now. Ichirou can twirl the weapon wherever he desires, a seamless extension of his arm. An incredible feat for his age, he's been told, but he finds that hard to believe when it was so simple to figure out. His mother offered him nothing, so it can't have been that impressive. "I got the proof you're looking for right here."

He almost expects Jirou to deny him, as he did last time. Instead, he is rewarded with his brother's grin, a feral reflection that hints there is still some Rangetsu left in his blood. Shigure does not stop them. The young lord leaps to his feet, excited to spectate. 

Contrary to what he'd said in the fall, Jirou throws his all into their match today. To try and impress his young liege? Or has he kept his appetite hidden this whole time? Is there a part of Jirou that still yearns to chase after the title of Shigure?

There was a time when Ichirou was the only child of Shigure old enough to wield a training sword. The only one tall enough to graduate into blades of steel. The only one who could spar with the other students unhandicapped.

There was a time when the only other brother he had to compete with, to invigorate him in combat, was Jirou. A boy who moves with his mind over his muscle, who gives Ichirou new ideas and tricks to adapt to every time they cross blades.

An old, dusty artifact in Ichirou's memories rises to the surface, shines itself bright in his focus. He missed this feeling. Did Jirou miss it, too?

Ichirou wins with a decisive strike to his brother's neck, stopping precisely skin-deep. A line of red mars his jugular, but the cut is too shallow to draw blood. Ichirou is just that much in control. A song of iron beats in his heart. He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun.

"Well?" he says, baiting.

Breath heavy, Jirou pulls himself to his feet, and the two sheath their blades with a bow.

With impeccable gentleness, he says, "Impressive. But I would hardly call that proof."

"Oh?"

The eyes turn playful. " _'When I'm Shigure',_ are the words I recall. You are not Shigure yet. I see nothing changed, brother."

"Say that again and I'll kill you where you stand."

"You won't." Jirou oozes confidence, makes Ichirou itch to prove him wrong, just because. He knows Shigure is watching close. Perhaps the count is as well, lured out of his meeting with the royal courier to observe the racket in his courtyard.

"You lost, Jirou," the young prince says, dismayed. Flanked on either side by two royal knights, his small stature appears all the more delicate.

Jirou kneels down to pat the boy's head. He used to do that with Shirou, after every game of shogi.

"One battle does not decide a war," he says.

Ichirou is the best among his peers. He's so good, he hardly even needs to dodge. Blade drawn, he is unstoppable. And yet, Jirou can worm under his skin so easily, with so few words!

Maybe it won't decide a war, he thinks, but all it takes is one loss to die. Winning means he's still alive at the end of the day.

"Come back again, Jirou," he finally says. "and watch me get exactly what I want."

Jirou's smile widens, seeming comforted by the invitation. The roar of the cicadas is deafening. "I look forward to it."

Next time never comes. When Ichirou sees his brother again, he is rolled tight in a mat of bamboo, swimming in the flames of his funeral pyre.

____

“So, what’s he want?”

Rokurou glowers behind the note, cheeks already a healthy glow from the drink in his hand. It's taken half the bottle just to tease him out of his sulking. “It’s a summons. He’s sending the driver from the western estate to pick us up.”

“A _driver?_ Oho, he’s _pissed._ Have fun with that.”

“You’re coming too.”

Ichirou waves his hand. “Nah. Got better things to do. ’sides, I don’t answer to him. That’s your job.” The silence presses on, uncomfortable. Eventually, Ichirou adds, "Say hi to Lunete for me."

Rokurou crumples the note, then swipes the bottle from the table. Ichirou looks on, amused. With his teeth, Rokurou uncorks it, and tops off his glass with a scowl.

Muffled from the stopper, he says, “Hope you weren’t expecting to take any home. I’m drinking every drop you don’t.”

“Hah! Like to see you try.”

Eizen turns away from where he'd been observing the sylphjay with idle interest. It's fast becoming clear that no one in the room is intent on explaining what the hell is happening unless he demands the answers himself.

"Orders from Melchior?" An understandable guess. Rokurou sure wasn't reading love notes to come out looking so irritable. But Ichirou laughs at his words, big lungfuls of air that make Eizen wonder why he even bothered speaking up.

“The count,” both brothers reply, one notably less excited than the other.

Oh. _Oh_.

“What about the Abbey?”

“What about ’em?" Ichirou's smirk stretches around the rim of his drink, distorted to hyperbolic width through the bends in the glass. Suddenly, the man looks unbearably punchable.

"I was under the impression legates aren't supposed to leave without notice."

"You'd have to be some kinda dumbass to tell a Rangetsu what to do."

Was that supposed to be helpful? Eizen gives his vessel a pleading look, and Rokurou returns it tiredly.

"It's complicated," he says, downing his glass. "We'll tell Melchior before we leave, but he can't stop us from going."

Eizen scoffs. That barely answers anything. "Alright, then."

Rokurou chews his lip, prickling up and down like an angry cactus. His brother casually reaches for the bottle next and, not to be outpaced, Eizen soon follows suit. Ricardo Bourbon isn't anything especially mind-blowing, but it goes down smooth and teases the belly with warmth. Its production is limited to small seasonal batches brewed in the rickhouses of Westgand. Aged in a first-pour oak barrel until it achieves a rich caramel hue, the drink imbibes the smoky flavors of wood and grain and butterscotch, with delicate undertones of stone fruit and toffee. Well worth going out of the way to track down, and about the only thing left in this room Eizen can talk about with absolute certainty, which undoubtedly heightens its appeal in this moment.

Time for a different tactic. Eizen gestures toward the bottle. "So, what took you out to Reneed?"

Ichirou grins, all teeth. A familiar expression, worn a bit more menacingly on the cheeks of this particular Rangetsu. "Training."

Of course. He means it sincerely, too, not as a way of dodging the question. Eizen's not sure what he expected.

Rokurou takes the opportunity to throw in some backhanded compliments, and before long, the two are back to bickering, sneaking sips of bourbon between spats. Seeing little value in breaking them up again, Eizen silently indulges his drink and figures his best course of action is to ignore them. No use digging for water in a well this dry.

Nestled up in the canopy of the bed, Aonbharr chirrups merrily, and Eizen feels a deep pull of longing for home.

____

Ichirou thinks this may be what it feels like to mourn.

Ever since Jirou's name was cast beyond mortal reach, he's felt - off. Normally, he doesn’t mind toying with his opponent. Kite them around the yard, test new tricks, tease out every last shred of hope that they could somehow turn the tide of the match. Lately, he hasn't been in the mood. He brings his sword down upon theirs, whether they be long blades or short. His strikes are swift and especially brutal, even for his standards. The gash he leaves on Saburou's arm is sure to scar terribly.

A match with Saburou is supposed to be exhilarating. Saburou is one of the best in the school, creeps closer and closer to Ichirou's heights each year with predatory obsession. The unraveled beast he becomes when he loses, particularly when he loses by such a wide margin, makes Ichirou's soul thrum. Eyes full of anger, throat barking death threats - the perfect storm for Ichirou to tear into with glee.

Today he feels empty. Bored, even. He's never felt this way before, has no idea how to deal with it.

What's the point of honing his blade, he thinks dreadfully, if _this_ is all that awaits him?

None of the masters who train under Shigure are enough to make him bow anymore. Soon, he'll be strong enough to cut her down. It's what he was born to do.

Only Shigure will lead the clan. He will fend off the strongest enemies. He will fight the count's bitterest of feuds. He will stand undefeated against armies, against nations, against the most harrowing of fighters. Everything will be his; no one is a match for Shigure Rangetsu.

That's how he imagined it’d go.

But Jirou died without accomplishing anything. He died with an arrow in his neck. He died without ever drawing his blade.

Jirou died. But the young prince lived. The assassination attempt was a narrow failure, thanks to Jirou's unshakable loyalty.

If he wanted to, Ichirou could cut the child down, so fast he'd never even notice. A weak, spoiled whelp, with a kingdom's worth of silver spoons wrapped in his powdered little hands.

Something shatters in Ichirou's palm, quickly accompanied by a dull stinging sensation, and the burn of steaming liquid. Ichirou watches the wasted tea dribble into his lap without reaction. Slowly, it rots a stain across his hakama.

Jirou would never have left the house if the count had not ordered him to. He could have stayed. He could have been here to race Ichirou to the top. He could have—

—he could have—

—but he can't now. He's dead.

If he becomes Shigure, will the count demand his life in the face of crisis? Will he die, not in an explosion of glory, but with a quiet whimper? Will his blade amount to nothing, his debt repaid but his name forgotten?

Ichirou feels a terrible chill settle in his chest, in spite of the barley's warmth. Never before has he felt so unsettled, so uncertain. Is this — fear? Regret? What is this ache that claws through him with salted nails?

Ichirou hurls the shards of his broken cup across the house. The soft raps they make against the wall does pity all for his mood, but there's a pleasant ache in his fingers from where the jagged edges cut into his skin. The chill subsides, but lingers in the back of his mind like a curse.

Not good enough. Needs to be louder. Wilder. Angrier.

Never mind. A spar is exactly what he needs right now.

If he were anything like the young prince, maybe he'd feel bad about taking everything out on his brothers. Thrashing them in their matches, antagonizing them all over the house. Having them rattle their frustrations back at him chases away the agony roiling inside, the dread, the fury. His brother did not deserve a death so silent! If anyone should have knolled the bell of his final breath, it should have been Ichirou!

He takes out one of Saburou's teeth with the hilt of his short sword. _Try harder_ , he taunts, _or you won't even be good enough to piss on._

He disarms Shirou like it's nothing, strikes him down with his own blade against his throat. _You're an insult to your sword if that's the best you can do._

He shows no mercy to little Gorou. It's the boy's first ever sparring match, and Ichirou kicks his feet out from under him in the first few steps. He slams the dull edge of the ōdachi deep into his back, even as sobs leak from his lungs. _You're a Rangetsu. Get back up and fight._

Not good enough. None of them are good enough. He won't beat Shigure like this.

But he _will_ beat her eventually. He will claim what is his. He has to.

If he boasts loud enough, will Jirou hear him, way up in the clouds? Will he know Ichirou hasn't forgotten him? The words he once spoke?

Ichirou is not as noble as his brother once was. The life of a rich politician, he's decided — cozy, comfortable, dreary — is no longer worth the sacrifice of his.

Perhaps Jirou was right about him; it was never about duty. Ichirou truly _is_ too selfish for that. But if all his lord concerns himself with is building his own strength, is it so wrong for Ichirou to do the same?

Strength of their caliber is wasted in this estate, chained to a debt long amputated from its source — shriveled, decayed. What respect can be mustered for this lord, who so carelessly throws them to the termites at the first whim of power? A pig who spits on the blades of his ancestors, proud warriors who laid down their names in service to his.

Jirou said he was drifting from his path, that he would never accomplish anything, and Ichirou will prove him wrong. He will carry that promise to his dying breath. They are Rangetsu, and they're worth more than this. If Ichirou does carry a duty in his heart, it is not for this lord, and it is not for this house; it is for him, and him alone.

Leaning against the wall of the training hall, arms tucked tight against his knees, is the littlest one in the family. Hair sticks to his forehead, cheeks rosy from a long day of practice. Wooden kodachi are set near his feet as the boy naps in his arms, breath still coming in uneven heaves. His hands are worn raw, skin cracking where calluses have yet to form, and his arms are laced red with welts. Beneath all that hair, perhaps there hides a black eye or a bloody nose. The Rangetsu style is vicious, even to those in the early days of learning. Ichirou used to carry marks like that, too, back when his opponents could still hit him. He learned quickly. And if this boy wants to survive, he'll learn quickly, too.

"Up and at ‘em, Rokurou!" he bellows, leaning in as close as he dares.

Rokurou leaps to action, scrambling for the swords and balling into a defensive stance as his eyes search wildly for the disturbance. He's clumsy, fumbling for a grip he hasn't yet internalized, his legs too close together; a summer breeze could tip him over. Tired eyes land on Ichirou, and settle in a space between confusion and anticipation. As predicted, there's a real shiner beneath his left eye, and a split in his lower lip. Enough time has passed that the bruise has swollen, blotching to an ugly dark purple.

"You're on knife duty for dinner." A lie. It is actually Ichirou's turn, but no one would dare question him. Shigure doesn't care who prepares the meals; no one escapes her criticism in the end. "Show us what you got in those hands, kiddo."

They must hurt, after so many hours. Muscles cramping, unused to the burden of combat, too worn to be capable of fine motor work. But Rokurou hedges any complaints and accepts his role loudly, enthusiastic in spirit, if not in emotion. 

There's a story woven in the evening's vegetables. Shaky, uneven cuts that belie nervousness, that slowly bleed into finer julienned slivers of carrot and cabbage as confidence grows. A steady rhythm builds consistency in the shape, until a moment of inattention causes disaster to strike. Ichirou purposely digs out a section of zucchini that looks less like it was chopped and more like it was torn in half, shows it off to the table, and laughs.

Rokurou holds his bowl out and reaches for another serving, fresh spots of red wetting the bandage around his thumb. His face, already a mess from before, looks downright pitiful now as he breathes sharply through his nose and pretends nothing is amiss. His brows crease, determined to keep his hands steady, but when he thinks no one is looking, they tremble and spill rice on his sleeves. He winces the tears out of his eyes with a grimace.

Shigure says nothing for the whole meal, until the very end when she rises to her feet.

"A Rangetsu cuts only what is intended. Is it your intention to do harm to yourself?"

Rokurou ducks behind his hair, uselessly tucking his wrapped thumb into his fist.

"No, Shigure."

"To waver is to invite death from your opponent. Will you fall to your own knife?"

"No, Shigure."

"Do not waver again."

"Yes, Shigure."

Ichirou hums into his tea. Nonchalantly, he reaches across the table and digs his knuckles into Rokurou's hair, effectively making him recoil, snapping his knee into the low table with a hiss. But Shigure is still within earshot, so Rokurou presses his mouth shut with no more than a whimper. The tears he'd worked so hard to hold back escape down his cheeks, and he rubs them furiously into his sleeve. The look he gives Ichirou is fierce. Angry. Alive. It's a good face for a seven-year-old, but it could be livelier. He wonders how that face will evolve a few cycles from now, when he's paired up with Ichirou for his first official match. Unlike their master, Ichirou won't go easy on him.

He wants to see that face twist into something more menacing. He wants Rokurou's head to swell, just so he can knock all the useless shit back out again.

What was Jirou thinking before his life ended? What were his last words before everything went dark?

Was he wrathful?

Did he realize the injustice of his stolen years?

Did his face twist like that, too, as he struggled against his failing body? Was his mask of composure broken at last, too little, too late, as the light in his eyes faded away?

Shigure's words were directed at all of them, not just Rokurou. Do not waver again. Fight back, struggle. If his siblings are anything like him, they'll do whatever it takes to get what they want. They'll recognize when a fight is worth throwing their life away.

And if they fail to realize any of that, then—

____

"-th'n where th' fuck _are_ you goin'?"

Eizen's awareness zeroes in on the words through what feels like a viscous wall of distraction and stray thought. He blinks, slowly, lifting his glass with more than the normal effort. To his dismay, he tips it up to find it empty. Drat.

"North. Gotta clear out a buncha d'm'ns."

"Fer the temple?"

"Yeahh."

Eizen's not sure when one bottle became three. Then five. Then...no, wait, they're still on five. There's a sixth bottle on the table now, but it hasn't been opened yet. He's not sure whether it's the sylphjay or Ichirou that spurred this impromptu competition, but if he's being honest, Eizen doesn't give two shits one way or the other.

They made quick work of the bourbon, the sake, the leftover rum, and now have progressed to whatever they can scrounge from around the room. Some sort of wine at the moment, ruby and dry. It's impressive no one's been sick yet.

Words come in layered muffles, and his usual sharp wits have dulled to a low hum, but Eizen still has control of his faculties...mostly.

"What’s the temple for?" he asks. Is he slurring? He hopes not. He may have let himself loosen up a bit, but he's not that careless. Right?

Rokurou gives a lethargic little wave with his hand, complexion a fittingly deep red after so many glasses.

"Empyr'un. Innnnnammat. Inomny-" Rokurou flexes his mouth, frustrated. "The fiff one."

Eizen raises his hand at the same time Rokurou does. As the legate attempts to grasp the unopened sixth bottle, his arm halts, suddenly frozen in place. Mechanically, it retracts and lays palm down on the table.

It takes a bit of confused silence before the gears turn in Rokurou's head.

"Hey! Lemme go!"

"No. I think you're done for tonight.” Persistent, Rokurou reaches with his left hand. Eizen could easily grab the arm with his domain, but finds far greater entertainment in using the one he already has. Ichirou spills his drink with uproarious laughter as Rokurou attempts to dodge around his possessed limb, but quickly finds how difficult it is to outmaneuver his own body. Eventually, Rokurou settles with his elbows down, hands clasped together, one struggling to break free as the other grapples it tightly.

"I hate you."

"You'll thank me in the morning."

"'m not even that drunk."

"Drunk enough to be making up gods is pretty drunk."

"I ain't makin' anything up, asshole."

Ichirou watches Rokurou struggle a bit longer before he reaches around him and grabs the bottle for himself.

"He r'lly isn't," he says.

Eizen eyes him warily. "Isn't what?"

"Making it up," Morgrim pipes in. She'd fallen into a light snooze amidst all the rowdiness, caring not for the smell or taste of drink. Her round eyes shine like two moons as she stretches on the table, back arching into Ichirou's fingers as they idly scratch along her spine. "Lord Artorius' pact is with the Fifth Empyrean, Innominat."

It must be Eizen who is too drunk. He could have sworn that snowy cat just said there were five Empyreans.

"...are you saying Artorius _made_ a god?"

Ichirou shrugs. "Who cares?"

"That's not something normal people just up and do on their own!" Five Empyreans. That can't be possible. "There should only be four. Is this some kind of hoax?"

"Perhaps. It is true we haven't witnessed his form for ourselves. Much of Innominat still lies dormant within the earthpulse." Morgrim bathes her paw, grooming it over her ear in gentle curls. She's far less distressed by this revelation than Eizen would expect another malak to be. "But it is also true that his domain, even in such a powerless state, is greater than anything I've ever felt. He could be an Empyrean. Or, he could be an exceptionally powerful malak. It's not our place to ask."

"Like hell it isn't. What could he possibly be planning that would require so much power?"

"Doesn't matter," Ichirou says again, and this time, Eizen knows he's hiding something. "As long as I get to kick 'is ass, who cares? More power, th' better."

Eizen sighs. "I don't get you people at all."

"Wha's there to get? Rangetsu fight. We're th' strongest. Tha's all that matters."

"Don't you care about anything else?"

Ichirou takes a great gulp of wine, loudly exhales, and turns to look at his brother, whom Eizen now realizes has fallen asleep, head dozing against his clasped hands.

"No," Ichirou finally says, quietly, like even he doesn't believe it.

Eizen lets his domain fall. Rokurou is snoring quietly, his balled position rather adorable as sleep softens his features. With his forehead against his hands, Eizen can't see his expression. Are there still lines of tension scratching at his face? Which of the long list of troubles is pulling his wrinkles most tonight?

"Hey, do me a favor." Ichirou messily digs his fingers in his brother's hair, near the back of the skull. Rokurou doesn't even stir. "Take care of this idiot. Make s're he c'mes back ten, nno, _fifty_ times stronger. In fact, 'nless he's good enough to kill me, don't come back at all!" Now that he no longer has a performance to keep up, an emotion closer to tenderness peeks out of the shadows in his face. Almost makes him look like a normal person.

_Clunk._

Spoke too soon.

The collision from Ichirou's head shakes the table as the evening's spoils finally conquer him. A loud, halting snore strains to escape where his head is caught at an unfortunate angle. Morgrim shakes the vibrations out of her paws, looking none too pleased, and quickly vacates to the more comfortable cushions of the bed.

Eizen corks the wine, juggling whether or not to leave the two brothers where they are. They're quite the sight, one curled up on himself and the other spread everywhere, bottles and glasses puddled all around them.

In the end, he figures at least his own idiot deserves a halfway-decent night's rest. Yanking him up like a doll, Eizen migrates to the bed, noting with a grimace that his feet don't always move where he wants. He's not sure what it is about these exorcists that makes overdoing things so easy - this is hardly the time to go losing his head, yet here he is, downing booze like he's a whelp of two hundred. Must be what Morgrim said, their youthful energy. It's infectious, almost as bad as a band of pirates howling to the moon their dreams of conquering the sea. Eizen's still young, but these people make him feel all the younger.

Once is circumstance, twice is coincidence. Three times is habit, and it certainly makes Eizen wonder how the hell this has happened three times already as he rolls the covers over Rokurou's shoulder. He makes sure to rotate the swordsman on his side. Last thing anyone needs is for Eizen's curse to drown him in his own vomit.

The last time he ever did something like this was several hundred years ago. Edna was still so small, not even up to his waist. Has she grown since then? How tall is she now? Does she still fold the edges of the blanket beneath her arms, to maximize the warm contact?

Empyreans forbid he ever be caught pulling such stunts with the crew. Aifread would laugh him all the way off the gangplank, all the way even to the bottom of the sea. Assholes, the whole lot.

Removing his jacket, gloves, and boots, he clambers into the bed's other half, leaning back against the headboard. Partly to keep vigil over his idiot, partly to address Morgrim properly. And, well, it's a damn comfortable bed, right in front of him not being used. It'd be a shame not to take advantage of it.

"Are you really not concerned about what the Abbey will do with that malak?"

"The stage is already set. By the time the temple is finished, Innominat will be worshipped as an Empyrean across the entire kingdom. He will _be_ an Empyrean, regardless where he originated." Morgrim gives him a look of sympathy. "I am bound by the terms of my pact. It will culminate faster if we do nothing. So we will do nothing."

"What's that? Beating Artorius?"

"My, that's touching rather private details, wouldn't you say?" It's hard to tell on a cat, but Eizen thinks she might be laughing at him. "But it plays its part, yes."

Eizen crosses his arms. He doesn't like it, not one bit. For all his years, he has never seen evidence of a fifth Empyrean. Either this Innominat is so ancient, even history has forgotten him, or Artorius has somehow found a way to ascend a malak to godhood. Neither verdict sits well with him. If it were any other man, Eizen wouldn't find it any of his business, but Artorius isn't just any man. He's the head of the Abbey. He takes malakhim like Eizen and uses them like pawns, breaks them if it suits his needs, tosses them once they've exhausted their usefulness. Whatever his plans are for this Innominat, Eizen can't bet his hopes on any of them being on terms he would agree with.

But there really isn't anything he can do about it, is there? What could he hope to stop? If this malak is in the earthpulse, he's as good as untouchable until it's too late. And even Eizen isn't so brash as to think he could kill the head of the Abbey as he is now - or however many legates and praetors it would take to get to him.

Morgrim didn't tell Eizen this purely out of generosity. It carried a warning. Morgrim's pact involves Artorius succeeding. If Eizen interferes with that...

"Sounds like we both have our agendas," he says. "I'll quit worrying about it, then." He won't, but it's a pleasant lie.

Morgrim has a very calming presence, unlike what Eizen would expect from Ichirou's malak. Her melodic purring brings him back to days snowed up in Hellawes, embraced by a warm fire near the hearth of an inn as he searched and searched for a salve to lift his curse. Back to older, desolate days. Humans couldn't see him, and malakhim kept their distance, away from the malevolence. Now and then, he'd stumble upon one like him, a malak who loved people, who found their ways of life curious and fulfilling. Short-lived companionship, but memorable all the same. He wonders what those malakhim are doing now, if they're still traveling, if they succumbed to the sins their desires to be with humans wrought them, or if they too were leached by the Abbey's bite.

"Do forgive Ichirou's behavior tonight," Morgrim says. "He always misses his brother terribly on long journeys."

"That's not how I would word it, but it's not as though Rokurou behaved much better."

Morgrim adjusts her paws and flattens out on her side, becoming less like a cream puff and more a croissant. "Beings like us, we know loneliness; we know heartache. Their clan may be of a different cloth, but for a time there were many of them, all together. Now, these two are all that remains. It's comforting to be with someone who understands them, for things you and I will never touch on ourselves."

Eizen hadn't really considered their relationship like that. It was already so alien, the idea of murdering one's family raised in tandem with honor and piety. Ichirou's constant teasing sticks in his mind, the way he agitates responses out of Rokurou, warranted or otherwise. As much as they want to kill each other - and Eizen believes they sincerely do want that - there's support there, there's structure. There's something more solid than just a family of killers.

He thinks of all the times Aifread has quite literally beaten the sense into him, and shakes his head. He thinks of Benwick, absorbing whatever Aifread tells him, whether they be words of succor or scourge, willing to drown if it means learning to swim. He thinks of Edna, stubborn and cruel when she tells Eizen everything except what she really thinks, when all of his shitty excuses are met with cutthroat silence. And still, he would never say those feelings weren't born of love.

Ichirou snores away on the table, head now cushioned between his arm and an empty bottle.

He reaches down, and pats Rokurou's head. Even in slumber, Rokurou inclines toward the touch. For a flicker of time, his lips curl into a smile, and it drives the heartache away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Percival is noted to have two younger brothers. The one Jirou was looking after was the middle child.
>   * Aonbharr (alt spelling: Enbarr) is named after a horse in Irish mythology that can traverse land and sea at speeds faster than wind. The bird itself is based on the English Carrier pigeon.
>   * Lunete: the handmaiden of Laudine, the Lady of the Fountain in Arthurian legend. Most of her story revolves around getting Laudine and Ywain together. She gets accused of treason when they break up and nearly dies for it, but Ywain eventually saves her and she helps them get back together again. Anyway, she’s Capalus’ daughter in this fic, more on her later probably. lol
>   * Ricardo bourbon: a reference to Ricardo Soldato, from Tales of Innocence
> 

> 
> I've always wanted to explore the Rangetsu siblings more, how they formed their identity in the clan, and how they influenced each other's views. In canon, it's possible everyone's personalities were just lesser copies of Shigure and Rokurou, but for the purposes of this AU, it's far more interesting and meaningful to give each brother their own idea of what being a Rangetsu means. Expect way more of that sprinkled throughout this story. :3 As always, thank you all for indulging this wild ride with me, and a big huge thanks to my friends for grammar-checking me and supporting me through the days when I feel like I'm not capable enough to put this story to words. ♥


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